


Common Goals: The Three Rockerteers

by ElDiablito_SF, Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Comedy, Crack, Crossdressing, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Men behaving badly - Freeform, Sexy Times, WTF, byronic heros, common goals, i want cheese, making fuck, mutual respect, what is this I cannot even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/pseuds/Zoi%20no%20miko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young d’Artagnan, yearning to become a rock star, joins the ranks of the world famous band, Common Goals.  The band’s members, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, are inseparable friends who most likely live by the motto "all for debauchery, and debauchery for all."  But their rock’n’roll paradise is being threatened by a nefarious ex-wife and an ex-bandmate with a grudge who are doing everything in their power to bring down the band.  Can these rockers pull off the most Epic Concert of All Time, and also find love along the way?  Read this amazing fic to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by speakmefair
> 
> From the sick minds that brought you Trailer Trash, Bukkake and hot Aramis on Aramis action comes a new, feature-length fuck...

  


**Common Goals: The Three Rockerteers**

**Authors’ Preface**

A short time ago, while conducting an intellectual inquiry into the history of rock bands at the turn of the twenty-first century, my collaborator and I found curious references to a band which history and the musical charts have long since forgotten, called Common Goals. 

What caught our attention was not so much the peculiar lyrical content of their songs, nor the fact that this band once played sold out shows at the world’s largest arenas, but rather most fascinating tabloid headlines with such titillating titles as “Rock Stars Sexcapades Exposed: When Plungers Are Not Enough” and “Sodom in the House of Athos.”

I immediately suggested to my collaborator that we go to a library to do further digging into this biblical phenomenon, to which she replied, “What’s a library?”

We proceeded to Google, hoarding all references we could find, using such keywords as “Sodom” and “Athos” and “Sexcapades,” our efforts finally paying off when we discovered what appeared to be an abandoned blog, at one point maintained by the lead guitarist of Common Goals, a Mr. Adam Athos. The blog was called “My account of how I lost my wife and learned to build relationships based on mutual respect.” We found this particularly enlightening as it had become obvious to us during our research that “Mutual Respect” was in fact the name given to the last documented tour by Common Goals.

Now, it is the retelling of this precious manuscript that we hereby present to our gentle readers, and beg for them to lay to our account, and not that of Mr. Adam Athos, the deepest pleasure or the profoundest boredom they may experience.

This being understood, let us proceed with our absolutely accurate historical account of these events.

  


  


**Chapter 1: In which we find Treville very irate**  


  
**  
**   


As was the custom in London, it was raining. Athos had a headache and was engaged in a stare-down with his own guitar. The insolent instrument was winning. Porthos was occupied with trying to balance an empty beer bottle on the tip of his surprisingly long tongue. Only Aramis seemed aware enough of their surroundings to step out of the way as the door swung open, with an unusual amount of violence, even for their manager.

Treville stormed into the studio, waving the morning's paper in her hand like a militant suffragette. "Again. Again, you bastards?"

Aramis leaned back in his chair and cocked one shaped eyebrow at Athos, who glared back. "Why the hell are you looking at me? I was with you all night."

"And a fat lot of good that did." Treville unfolded the paper, brandishing the headline: TRUTH ABOUT ROCK STARS’ SHOCKING SEXCAPADES. "’Common Goals lead guitarist, Athos, and frontman, Aramis, narrowly escaped arrest for indecent exposure outside a south city church.' A church? Because we really need to give the Christian extremists another reason to hate us?"

"That was last week," Athos tried to argue, at the same time as Aramis replied, "We were worshiping our Lord and Savior. They should approve of that."

"I'm not going to even get into who you were worshiping," Treville shot back.

Athos tried to salvage the situation. "You're holding The Globe. No one reads that tabloid trash."

"Wrong. Supermarket Moms read this shit, and then they go home and tell their teenagers that they’d rather see them snorting coke off a hooker's ass than attending one of our concerts. Do you know what this does to ticket sales?" She turned her gaze to Porthos as he snickered. "You think this is funny, you walking ginger sexual harassment suit?"

Porthos cocked an eyebrow, giving Treville the wide, lopsided smile that he secretly called his groupie magnet. "Come on doll, don't be like that. I'd never sue you, the sex is just too good."

"Fuck off," Treville replied, raising the paper again. "’The band's drummer, meanwhile, proves to have even more questionable morals, and spent the evening in a private room at the Crystal Lounge with a group of the band's fans, which included eight women, three men, and a goat. The required entrance fee to the event, a source states, was to remove your knickers to prove that you shaved.’"

"That's complete bullshit. There was no goat. Shaved goats are utterly unappealing." He paused for a moment. "Though I suppose someone could have snuck one in the back.”

“The back of what?” Aramis interjected.

“I was too busy having my brain sucked out through my cock to notice," Porthos completed his train of thought.

Treville gave a growl deep in her throat that sounded dangerously unsettled. "Look, I don't fucking care if you're topping the rock charts and selling platinum records in your sleep. How the hell am I supposed to get rid of the slanderous lies Athos's ex-bitch spreads about you if you're proving them right every time I turn around? No more orgies in strip clubs, no more fucking in public, no more defiling churches, and for God’s sakes, no more goats! Do you hear me?"

“What about orgies and fucking in private..?” Porthos started, but got cut off by Treville’s scorching look.

“Define ‘defiling’.” Athos leaned forward with an interested look on his face.

From the studio door, they heard a soft cough, and turned to find a young man in leather pants and a Common Goals t-shirt hovering nervously in the doorway. "Um. Are you Emily Treville?"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh God, and now we have groupies in the studio. Well, you can't fuck any of them,” she growled, indicating Athos, Porthos, and Aramis with her hand. “And how the hell did you get past security?"

The boy swallowed hard. "Um. I'm not fucking - I mean, I'm not a groupie. You invited me here for the audition." At her blank look, he wet his lips nervously, which were painted slightly unevenly in black lipstick. "For bass player? I'm JJ d'Artagnan?"

Athos's eyebrows knit together as he looked the boy over. "You? Treville, he doesn't even look old enough to drink. And he looks like Justin Bieber got into his mother's makeup."

Treville stalked towards the newcomer. "Oh, right. Jimmy Joe.”

“It’s James Joseph,” the boy mumbled barely audibly underneath his breath.

“Whatever,” Treville cut him off with a halting hand gesture. “Clean criminal record, never been arrested for public drunkenness or indecency, hasn’t knocked up any bints, raised a good Christian boy in suburbia of San Antonio. Tell me, boy, what do you think of blow?"

"What?"

"Drugs. Do you do them?"

"I - I'm a vegetarian," the boy stammered, and Treville gave an approving nod.

"Perfect. You're hired. Now wipe off that ridiculous makeup and start looking more wholesome. You're exactly what this band needs."

  


**Chapter 2: In which d’Artagnan manages to change some minds**  


  


**  
**  


“Exactly what this band needs?!” Porthos whispered hotly into his friends’ ears.

Athos shrugged and set his guitar to the side. “Let’s all go down for a drink at Le Chat d’Or. Boy!” The young man looked up from his napkin, which was smudged with the vestiges of his black lipstick. “If, that is, you are in fact old enough to drink...”

“I’ve been drinking since I was twelve!” the boy shot back indignantly.

“Ah, so that explains your stunted growth,” Athos mumbled.

“Well, as long as his fake ID is good enough that’s all that matters.”

“Jeez Louise! I don’t need a fake - I’m legal in England. Hot damn.”

“Legal in England?!” Aramis’s eyes got very wide. “Well, Christ... Emily Treville will be the death of me.”

Porthos was still staring at the newcomer. “Did he seriously just say ‘Jeez Louise’? What the bloody fuck is this, an episode of ‘Leave it to Beaver’?”

A few minutes later, the four musicians walked through the doors of their favorite pub, the aforementioned Le Chat d’Or, and Athos quickly headed towards the bar, as if to avoid any further discussion.

Porthos, however, undeterred, continued his line of inquiry.

“And did I hear you say you’re a vegetarian? How the fuck are you supposed to go on the road with us? Sometimes all I eat for days is haggis.”

“He’s lying,” Aramis quickly pointed out.

“What the heck is haggis?” the boy’s knitted eyebrows spoke of worlds of confusion.

“Jesus Titty-fucking Christ, d’Art!” Porthos stretched out between two chairs, his legs resting on the back of one of them, rather precariously. “Now, tell me this, kid. If God didn't want me to eat animals, why did he make them so delicious? Especially bacon? Aramis, what do you think?"

Aramis cast a quick glance towards the bar, where Athos was balancing what looked like an inordinate amount of shot glasses.

“Um.... That depends. Is cock - meat?”

“Well, if all y’all insist on being jerks about it!” The boy stood up and took a threatening step back, as if to make room for a scuffle. Unfortunately, whatever his militant intentions actually were, they were left unaccomplished, as with his backwards step he ended up tripping over the foot of Athos, knocking all the shot glasses to the floor, and landing on top of the older man in an unwieldy heap of limbs.

“Ah! Son of a BITCH! You crushed my hand, you ASSHOLE!”

“And wasted the fucking booze!” Porthos seemed almost as incensed.

“Um... sorry?” the kid mumbled, becoming increasingly mortified, yet still failing to get off of Athos.

“Sorry? You’re SORRY??!!” Athos unceremoniously pushed the younger man off of his chest, finally liberating his abused appendage. “I have to play tomorrow! I think you sprained my goddamn thumb!”

“Jeez Louise! I said I'm sorry, alright? Just put some hot-damn frozen peas on that shit.”

Aramis winced. “I’m not sure if I’m more insulted by how stupid you are or your repeated raping of the English language.”

Athos was no less outraged. “Frozen peas? That's your suggestion? I don't know what it is they do in Tijuana or San Ysidro or wherever the fuck you hail from...”

Young d’Artagnan could take it no more.

“San Antonio! It's TEXAS, you dick!” And with a spirited leap, he jumped on top of Athos again, trying to punch him in the face.

“Fiesty little fucker!” Porthos looked almost gleeful as he joined the fray, jumping d’Artagnan and making Athos give a breathless grunt at the extra weight.

“Wherever it is, you have absolutely no manners,” Aramis noted with a disapproving frown. He grabbed a pitcher of cheap-looking beer off the tray of a passing waitress and upended it over the scrabbling trio. Much to his chagrin, this gesture only provoked further struggling, pulling Aramis down onto the wet floor along with everyone else. Someone’s little claw came deleteriously close to his eye.

“Not his face, you fucking wanker!”

“Yeah. One of us has to be pretty.” Porthos smirked, then narrowly ducked a flailing limb.

“Shit!!!” With seemingly supernatural strength, the boy struggled onto his feet.

“ _You’re_ shit!” Athos shouted back.

“No, no! You guys! It’s the paparazzi!”

“Oh, fuck.” Even Aramis was unusually profane. “Quick, the back room.” Regardless of the slick floor, they were all on their feet in an instant. A wink from Aramis was enough to get them past the bartender and into the back of the pub, where they stopped, panting against the wall, adrenaline pumping. They were still for a few moments, hops-reeking brew dripping down some of their clothes, listening with bated breath for any more sounds of trouble.

Finally, d’Artagnan took a breath and, meeting Athos’s eyes with his own, said, “Your MOM’s shit!”

Contrary to the boy’s expectations, this seemed to break something inside Athos because he started to laugh uncontrollably, finally sliding down the wall, gripping his stomach.

Porthos gave a little approving nod. “Corny, but ballsy.”

“And good eye too,” Aramis added, trying to suppress his own fit of laughter which seemed imminent under the circumstances.

“Treville would have had all our asses on a spit,” Athos added, getting control of his breath.

“Especially after the whole goat thing,” Porthos muttered with a rueful grin. “But he definitely needs new clothes. Send him shopping with Grimaud.”

“What’s a Grimaud?” The boy asked, a shy smile spreading across his flushed face.

“It’s Athos’s personal assistant. He’s _really_ gay. So he doubles as our fashion consultant.” Porthos explained.

“Gay.... or French,” Aramis mused.

“There’s no way to know really - he seldom speaks,” Porthos added.

“But he does wear a lot of scarves,” Athos cocked his head to the side, as if contemplating this fact.

“Scarves are pretty gay,” Porthos agreed, grabbing a bottle of wine from the rack to one side and starting to uncork it. He looked up at d’Artagnan. “You don’t wear scarves, do you?”

“Should I?”

“Not unless you’re trying to be the next Bowie,” Aramis replied with a snort, taking the uncorked bottle of wine from Porthos and taking a swig. “Besides, I’m already the pretty one.”

“Yes, so do go easy on the eyeliner,” Athos suggested helpfully, taking the bottle from Aramis and drinking far more from it than his bandmates would have liked. Porthos snatched it back before he could finish the whole thing, offering it to d’Artagnan.

“So, d’Art. No regrets about deciding to throw your lot in with us?”

“Well,” the boy started meekly, mouthing at the bottle and earning a scathing look from Athos.

“Don’t fellate the bottle, kid, just drink!”

D’Artagnan drowned the remnants of the wine obediently and handed the empty receptacle back to Porthos with a little cough. “I do still have concerns about...”

“What? Out with it!”

“Well, what happened to your last bassist,” he added another perfunctory cough.

Porthos automatically reached for another bottle of wine and started to uncork it.

“Yes, well, long story, for another time, possibly when Athos is more drunk,” Aramis quickly steered the conversation away from the infamous Rochefort incident.

Porthos took a good sized swig of the wine before passing it to Athos. “As long as you’re not a complete moron you’ll be fine, boy.” And then he added, “Now, where did you come from again? Utah?”

“Dag nab it! I’m not a frickin’ Mormon! San Antonio! You've _heard_ of San Antonio!”

Porthos looked uncertain. “What is even _in_ San Antonio?”

“The Spurs,” Athos mumbled, taking over the newly uncorked bottle and earning a bewildered look from Aramis. “What?” he asked his floored bandmate. “I like sports.”

“I would have gone with the Alamo, myself,” Aramis smirked.

“ _Oh_ yeah!” Porthos chimed in, excitedly. “I remember the Alamo!” A communal groan echoed this outburst.

  


**Chapter 3: In which some light is shed upon the events leading up to these events**  


  


We hope the reader will bear with us while we are forced to backtrack a little in time in order to establish the historical setting in which these events are taking place. Specifically, the formation of Common Goals in its current roster, or, even more specifically, the sudden and torrid breakup of the previous band to which some of the members had the misfortune to belong.

It was, some would reflect, a lot like The Beatles. Except significantly more of a train-wreck and with a great deal more sexual deviance. So really, not at all like The Beatles, except for the fact that the band’s demise was most definitely caused by one very devious, self-serving woman.

The woman in question was one glamorous pop-music princess named Milla D. The solitary “D” stood for something vaguely Eastern European and mostly unpronounceable, and she was only too happy to exchange that moniker for the more appealing surname of her husband: the aforementioned Adam Athos. Athos himself had no doubt that her eventual goal was to drop all surnames all together and reach the coveted One Name Only status with the likes of Madonna and Oprah, if not from talent then from the infamy of the sheer amount of drama she caused. Not that he would have admitted that at the time of their nuptials. No, to all observers, Milla and Adam looked entirely happy, perhaps even _too_ happy to be properly endured. And as it happens to all musicians in love, as soon as they tied the knot, they got matching tattoos and started a band. That band was called “ATHOS” - after them.

The problems started when Milla proved to belong to the all-too-common pop star mindset that anything could be bought with sex, including the undying devotion of the band’s bassist, Leslie Rochefort. This poor young man’s real name had been Leslie Ducheez, and having been convinced to change his last name to something more presentable, he did not have the heart to do anything about his rather androgynous given name. This anecdotal information aside, Rochefort’s devotion was as much to the band’s leader (and main composer), Athos himself, and when given the opportunity to enhance his relationship with the power couple sexually, he jumped right on it, if you catch our drift.

Our gentle readers will surely forgive us for going into a bit more detail than you were probably anticipating, but in our quest to make this historical account as truthful and factual as possible, we must persevere, even at the cost of disgusting you!

While actual documentation of this event remains as yet to be uncovered, it was widely alluded to in the press that the tragic eye loss suffered by the bassist of ATHOS was indeed a result of this coupling, or rather, more specifically, the accidental coupling of Leslie Rochefort’s eye with the cock of Adam Athos.

But we digress, and generally get ahead of ourselves in our desire to explicate things more quickly. The truth was that up until now, no one had truly known the reason for Adam Athos filing for divorce from Milla D. What had been known, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was that this divorce took place, was very ugly, and resulted in the departure from ATHOS of both Milla and Rochefort, and the subsequent renaming of the band’s remaining members into “Porthos” and “Aramis,” thus finishing the formation of Common Goals in their form at the opening of our narrative.

Holding the band together and everyone’s sanity in check had been the accomplishment of the group’s long-time manager, Emily Treville. She performed her job with aplomb, thanks in no small part to a combination of industry knowledge and experience, and in even greater part her unquestionable chutzpah. There were rumors that she whipped the band regularly to keep them in check, and while those rumors could never be confirmed nor denied she was without a doubt one of the best in the business at handling the press and smoothing over PR nightmares.

These aforementioned PR nightmares were innumerable following the breakup of ATHOS, due partially to Milla’s vindictive allegations and Rochefort’s blatantly missing eye. At first the scandal helped boost album sales, but, as the months went on, it seemed that Milla’s efforts were becoming more successful than anyone would have liked.

Not helping matters were the rapid descent into drunkery by Athos, who had proven himself incapable of writing a single note after the divorce without the aid of a large loading dose and an equally large maintenance dose of vast amounts of alcohol. Treville’s attempts at getting her lead guitarist into therapy seemed to backfire, since self-reflection only made Athos more introspective, and even less of a good time than his dour nature had previously made allowances for: an unbearable trait for a burgeoning rock star.

Aramis, who in addition to being the new frontman for Common Goals was also the primary supplier of the band’s lyrics, at the same time of Athos’s decline, began to regularly threaten to leave the band to take vows with the Catholic clergy. And even Treville had to admit that Porthos - formerly the most scandalous, sex-addicted member of the band - was now the least of her worries.

Meanwhile, the position of bassist remained open, Treville suspected due to the fact that no one had any desire to lose an eye, even if it had been through a mutually consensual encounter with a celebrity. Only someone equally as insane as the trio she had become responsible for, or someone unabashedly stupid, would have risked their physical and moral perdition to join Common Goals. The choice between the two traits was obvious to Treville, and young JJ d’Artagnan became the perfect fourth member, but whether his wholesome appearance would help things was yet to be determined

Having filled in these blanks to our readers’ satisfaction, we now proceed to the rest of our tale, where we can find our protagonists almost exactly as we last left them: drunk and at a bar.

  


**Chapter 4: In which our young hero becomes aware of the complexities of women in frills**  


  


**  
**  


It was par for the course to end up at a bar after a concert; preferably one that Treville had arranged with lots of security and a carefully monitored guest list. It all seemed very extravagant and a little alien to d’Artagnan, who was used to after parties that happened at run down houses where the lineup to the bathroom was always three people deep because of the amount of people doing things in the bathtub that he didn’t want to question. He’d lost sight of the rest of the band shortly after arriving, and spent much of his first hour trying to drink all of the things that were placed in his hand by scantily clad women and a few over-amorous men.

Finally he managed to find Porthos in one of the corner booths, perched on the back of the banquet with a beer in one hand and a girl on each arm and several more glassy-eyed groupies squished in along the benches. “It’s completely possible to jizz on yourself,” the drummer was rather drunkenly telling an aptly attentive man. “You just point and skeet. Of course, there’s usually much nicer things to jizz on....”

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan hissed, and getting no response, tried again more loudly. “Porthos!!”

“Hello little Alamo,” Porthos replied with a grin, stepping up onto the table and kicking over a few empty shot glasses as he crossed to hop down in front of him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

D’Artagnan decided to forgive the ridiculous nickname. “I’ve drunk all the things. I’ve signed all the autographs. What the hell else am I supposed to be doing?”

Porthos raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Please don’t tell me that we need to teach you how to party. Drink more. Wench. If you smell skunk, find it and smoke it. If you want something harder, let me know and I’ll hook you up with Mousqueton.”

“Um... Moose...what the fuck?”

“He’s in procurement.”

“Eh?”

“He’s my dealer.”

“OH.” D’Artagnan looked momentarily paralyzed. “Er... pass?”

“Fine then... Well... Get to know the fans. I have a key to the back room if you’d like, but we’ll all end up joining you. Or would you like to join us?”

“Er.” Even in a half-drunk state, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but remember something he’d read in the paper about a shaved goat. “I think I have to wash my hair.”

Porthos ruffled his hair affectionately, and as d’Artagnan snuck away he heard the drummer turn to his entourage. “Well, my darlings, how about we take this some place more comfortable?”

D’Artagnan escaped into the men’s washroom to splash his face, taking a moment to stare at his reflection and attempt to see past the alcohol. Being a rock star was turning out to be a lot more work than he’d anticipated. He was beginning to think that he could safely take a few moments to sober up when a trio of hipster looking guys entered. The leader, who was dressed in nothing but skinny jeans and suspenders, slung an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, you’re the new bassist, right? Sick tunes tonight, man. You want some nose clams? You’ll totally feel like Mick Jagger.”

“I - uh - I’m nose clammed out,” d’Artagnan managed to stammer, ducking out from under his arm and giving a consolatory fist bump to him and the guy behind him in pink clam diggers. British fashion was weird. “Thanks man. Rock on.”

Creeping out of the washroom with his virgin nose safely intact, d’Artagnan surveyed the bar helplessly. Surely there had to be someone on the guest list that believed there was more to life than sex and drugs. Scanning the room with a hopeless gaze, his eyes focused on Athos, who was smoking what appeared to be a very _angrrrrry_ cigarette, based on the length and frequency of the drags he was taking, the heel of his boot resting on the back of a person who appeared to be passed out on the rug. Following the line of Athos’s look of disdain, d’Artagnan saw a coffee table, or rather, a stripper on top of a coffee table, out of whose navel Aramis had taken a body shot of something green and suspicious, much to the mirth of all the fawning admirers surrounding him.

“Whoa, that doesn’t look like a good time,” he muttered under his breath, deciding not to join them. He narrowly avoided the exploding beer can opened by a group of frat boys nearby. “Jeez Louise!” Maybe there was a quiet corner where he could sit for a bit and sober up....

There was a darkened alcove past the bar that he headed to, managing to make his way through the crowd with only one unopened can of Pabst Blue Ribbon pushed into his hand. When he reached the alcove, however, he found it more occupied than he’d hoped; a trio of muscular looking douchebags in Ed Hardy surrounded a young woman in a pink gingham dress. As he watched, one of them grabbed her waist, pulling her close as she tried to push away. “Come on, baby, you know you want some of this...”

“Gross!” She tried to wiggle out of the embrace. “I said no, leave me alone!”

Chivalry kicked in, and d’Artagnan moved to her side quickly. “Hey, the lady said no. Let the yonder looker be!”

One of the guys pushed his sunglasses up onto his spiked, bleached hair. “Get out of here, hipster. This is none of your business.”

“It’s my party, and it is darn straight my goddamn business!” D’Artagnan tried to make himself seem taller and more intimidating. “Now get the hell out of this bar before I call a bouncer and have you banned from all our concerts!” He paused for emphasis and added, “Hot damn.”

“Fuck, man.” The first man let go of the girl with a sneer of disdain, stepping back. “The old bassist was cooler. Come on guys, there’s girls here that aren’t frigid bitches.”

“She’s not a bitch!” d’Artagnan yelled after them as they disappeared into the crowd. “And I’m not a goddamn hipster!” He turned back to the girl, expelling a long breath and trying to calm down. “You okay, little miss?”

The girl looked a little shaken, but managed a wide smile, smoothing down the ruffles on her dress. “I’m fine, thanks to you. I didn’t realize Americans were such gentlemen.”

Her smile only made her prettier, d’Artagnan thought, returning it and noticing now that he was closer how blue her eyes were. He puffed out his chest and declared with pride, “American by birth, Texan by the Grace of God, miss!” He took a step closer and smoothed down a strand of her caramel hair. “Heck, any decent guy would help a pretty little thing like you. I’m JJ.”

“I know,” she replied with a wink. “I was at the show. I think you’re much better than the old guy.”

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan replied, feeling suddenly bashful. “Hey, um... can I buy you a drink? You’re cute as a possum.”

She laughed, slipping her arm into the crook of his. “I think it’s supposed to be the other way around, Mr. Handsome Rock Star. I’m Constance, by the way. But my friends call me Connie.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “Where I’m from, women don’t pay for things,” he said firmly, turning towards the bar.

“And where’s that?” the girl asked, coyly. “1859?”

Poor young d’Artagnan blushed and coughed into his fist to cover up his confusion. “Er... Come on... Connie. We’re friends, right?” At these words, he found himself blushing even deeper than he thought possible and a part of him wished he had Porthos to whisper some better lines into his ear, Cyrano-style.

“Friends,” She affirmed with a strange little smile, following him to the bar and letting him buy her a Cosmo. He bought one for himself as well and sipped it a little awkwardly, not quite sure what else to say. Girls in England seemed so much more complicated than the ones back home.

Just then one of the girls that had been hanging off Porthos came up behind him, leaning in to speak close to his ear, almost as if summoned by his earlier wishful thoughts. “Porthos says the back room is full, but if you go out the door behind the bar one of the limos is waiting.”

“Uh, thanks..,” d’Artagnan managed to reply, looking back at Connie’s smiling, expectant gaze. “Um... you wanna talk someplace quieter?”

“I’d love to,” she replied, draining the rest of her Cosmo.

Once they were settled in the limo, d’Artagnan happily grabbed a bottle of water from the ice bucket, uncapping it. “Would you like some water? I just need to sober up a bit, sorry.”

“Sure.” She took it from him with an amused little quirk of her eyebrows and sipped it as he opened a second, and downed half of it in one go. “You’re not like the other guys, are you?”

“It’s kind of a different world here,” d’Artagnan admitted with a rueful smile. “I guess I’ll get used to it soon enough.”

“You’re not afraid?” There was almost a wink in her voice.

“I ain’t afraid of shit!” young JJ affirmed.

“What about Milla D? I hear she’s totally psycho. Like, straight off her rocker. Aren’t you afraid of her?”

“Dunno,” he muttered, which was the truth - very little of what he’s heard of the former founding member of ATHOS made any sense to him. “Evil thoughts are like chickens, I reckon. They always come home to roost.” He took an absentminded sip of the water.

“What does _that_ mean? I call blotto!”

“It’s a saying,” d’Artagnan shrugged and stared into his bottle, not daring to look up at the pretty girl’s face.

“It’s okay,” she replied with a smile, sliding closer and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I think you’re cute. Hey, this limo is really fancy... any place we can go in it?”

“The only place I know here is my hotel,” d’Artagnan replied without thinking, surprised when the girl leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

“JJ, that sounds perfect.”

  


**Chapter 5: In which d’Artagnan has lost count**  


  


**  
**  


The next morning d’Artagnan awoke to light streaming through the hotel window and a splitting headache. He burrowed his head under the pillow with a groan, reaching towards the warmth he could feel against his back to pull the blankets over him more securely. When his searching hand encountered bare skin instead of blanket, he froze.

Memories of the night before came back in a blurred rush. He’d offered Connie a drink when they’d gotten back, surprised when she’d turned down alcohol in exchange for splitting a bottle of orange juice. A little glass bottle had appeared from the depths of her purse, something she’d promised him would give him a lot of energy so they could talk all night. It had tasted disgustingly salty and made him feel more drunk than anything else. Drunk... and really horny.

“Geez...” More memories filtered back, and his eyebrows knit together. They’d had sex. A lot of sex. Probably more sex than he’d ever had before in one night. What the hell had been in that energy drink?

“Good morning handsome,” Connie murmured sleepily, wrapping a thigh over his hips. D’Artagnan’s cock twitched, remembering very nice things about those thighs, and he turned into her to pull her closer, kissing her sleepily. The tour bus didn’t leave until two, so surely there was time for one more round....

Suddenly something occurred to him, and he sat up with a start. “Oh shit. _Oh shit_ , babe, I’m so sorry, I’m dumb as a bunch of rocks - “

Connie looked up at him, blinking sleepily. “What’s wrong, handsome?”

“We made love without a wrapper. Twice. Er. Three times.”

“Four,” she corrected, stretching sleepily. “Don’t worry darling, I’m on the pill.”

"Oh," he replied, somewhat awkwardly. “Uh, okay then.”

Connie sat up to kiss him, then started hunting for her dress on the floor. “I have to meet my mates for brunch....”

“Will I see you in Manchester?” The words came out of his mouth anxiously before he could stop himself.

Connie stopped, then turned to him with a little smile. “If you want. I know someone who’s driving out, but I don’t have a place to stay....”

“Well, you can stay with me, right?” He fumbled for a pad of paper in the bedside drawer. “Here, I’ll give you my phone number. Um. But I don’t know if I remember it, it’s really long and British....”

“It’s okay,” she replied with a giggle, leaning down to kiss him again. “Just leave my name with the backstage security guard, I’ll meet you there after the concert.”

“Okay.” D’Artagnan couldn’t help but grin, getting out of bed and trailing her out into the common room of their hotel suite. He ignored Aramis, who was sitting at the table reading the morning paper. “Do you need cab fare or anything?”

“I’ve got it, handsome.” She turned at the door for another kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” D’Artagnan awkwardly stretched his head as his late night guest turned around. “Um... I don’t know how to say this, but... to leave your name with the bouncer.... uh... Connie What?”

“Oh sweet Lord..,” he heard mumbled from the direction of the table.

“It’s Goodskies,” she said, laughing that patented well-natured laugh of hers. “Connie Goodskies.” And with another wink, she ran out of the hotel suite.

  


**Chapter 6: On ramifications of copulating with women in frills**  


  


**  
**  


Young d’Artagnan remained stupefied for a few moments in the doorway until he realized that he should have probably put some clothes on prior to coming out buck-naked into the suite. He turned slowly towards Aramis and gingerly cupped his gentalia with his hands.

“Um... ‘morning.”

“Connie _Goodskies? Really?_ Since when are you boning hippies?” Aramis folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside, while sipping his coffee.

“Since when are you boning anyone at all,” the bear-like growl which passed for the voice of Athos on mornings such as these sounded from the toilet, followed by a flush. “And has Treville signed off on this?” The lead guitarist appeared in the doorway with a complacent smirk.

“I don’t have to ask permission to date a pretty girl,” d’Artagnan replied, with a contrarian air and lifting his head up higher. “And I’ll have you know that Connie’s special.”

Athos looked away with a snort. “Groupies are only after fame and fortune, boy. Don’t mistake that for love.”

“Ah, leave the boy alone.” Porthos emerged from his room in boxer shorts, scratching his balls before crossing into the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge. “He’s only just getting introduced to the manly art of wenching.”

“And the manly art of herpes,” Athos sneered.

“Hey, you had more sex than Casanova before you and Milla got married and your cock’s still not falling off,” Aramis interjected suddenly.

“Don’t _you_ say her name to me!” Athos snapped and made a very expedient exit back to his own room, the door slamming behind him.

“What the... hissy fit was that?” D’Artagnan was bewildered.

Porthos finished his beer and trashed the empty before stepping closer to d’Artagnan. “If you’re ever worried, I’ll give you the address of the clinic I go to. All you have to do is give them my name.”

D’Artagnan looked at him confusedly. “For a pregnancy test?”

“No, for... oh God, you did use protection, didn’t you?”

“Uh... “ d’Artagnan flailed a little helplessly. “She’s on the pill!”

Porthos pulled a box of condoms out of one of the kitchen drawers and handed it to him. “Don’t trust random bints. Put a wrapper on your zapper. And don’t get blow jobs from girls with cold sores. Or boys.”

“Words of wisdom,” Aramis mumbled, still drinking his coffee although noticeably more irate. “And for the love of all, put some clothes on already!”

  
**Chapter 7: In which Treville blames Athos for everything**   


  
**  
**   


“What do you mean, you got married!!” Treville’s screech was loud enough to wake even Porthos, who opened the door to his hotel room room to find Athos and Aramis standing quietly behind the kitchen bar in the suite, watching the show. D’Artagnan stood in the middle of the living room, trying to make himself wince less.

“I’m in love with her!” he tried, jutting his chin out. “This is about more than just the shimmy-sham! Rock stars can find love too!”

“... Shimmy sham?” Porthos asked in genuine confusion, completely ignored by Treville.

“You think this is love? You married a goddamn groupie!”

“His _first_ groupie,” Aramis added, earning a scathing look from Treville.

“I wasn’t talking to you!” she shot, before turning back to d’Artagnan. “You were supposed to be the wholesome one, dammit! What would your mother think of you?”

At that, it was as if something inside d’Artagnan snapped. “My mother taught me to be a responsible young man who takes care of his family! And if you have a problem with that, I’ll quit!”

“Surely, Emily, it would be worse if he had a bastard out of wedlock,” Athos offered, almost in a conciliatory fashion, although by the look on his face one would not surmise very much good will.

“Don’t you _Emily_ me, Athos!” she veered on him, producing some amount of wind as she turned. “This is almost as much your fault as it is his!”

“ _My_ fault? How the heck is _any_ of this _my_ fault?”

“I expected you to bring him up properly! You know, with just the right balance of good manners and misogyny! To keep him addicted to mild booze and _away_ from twat!”

“What? Bring him _up_? Since when is he my responsibility?” Athos took an angry gulp from the cup he was holding, the contents of which could only be guessed at this point.

“Well, aren’t you the so-called _leader_ of this godforsaken band?” She spun like a top, fixing all four men in the room with an icy stare. “Huh???!!! Of _ruffians_!”

“Well, bloody hell, Emily... I’m a musician; I’m not fucking Robin Hood!”

“And I’m not a damned child!” D’Artagnan interjected, becoming more outraged at the dismissive attitude Emily was exhibiting towards him, not to mention everyone’s blatant refusal to join in the happiness of his nuptials.

“I _like_ Frills!” Porthos suddenly announced.

“Her name is Connie!” D’Artagnan was so confused by the entire situation that he did not notice that someone had actually supported him in his time of tribulation.

“Oh you just shut your face, Porthos! And you...” Emily turned towards d’Artagnan, her finger extended so far that he thought it might probe into his brain through his nostrils. “You....” The finger trembled and made little jutting movements. “MAZEL TOV, ASSHOLE!” And she stormed out of the room, pausing at the door to glare back over her shoulder. “And for fuck’s sakes, don’t cheat!”

Aramis winced as the door slammed behind her, rattling the wall. He looked over at d’Artagnan with a long suffering sigh. “D’Artagnan. Groupies are for fucking, not for marrying.”

“And definitely not for impregnating,” Porthos added, taking a beer out of the fridge.

“Have you considered the abortion alternative?” Athos mused and wicked smile crossed his face.

D’Artagnan looked absolutely horrified. “You want me to murder my own child?”

“Oh God,” Porthos muttered from behind his beer.

“Aramis, help me.” Athos twitched.

“ _Me?_ I’m _Catholic._ ”

“Fuck you very much for the reminder,” Athos snarled and squinted his eyes into dangerously narrow slits.

“Regardless, he’s already a lost cause,” Porthos muttered, then brightened. “At least someone else will be in the tabloids for once.”

“Wonderful. Tell Frills - Welcome to the family!” Athos emptied the contents of his cup down the gullet and withdrew to his quarters, where a few minutes later Grimaud was summoned, with an assortment of leather accessories and accent scarves.

  
**Chapter 8: The Plot Thickens**   


  
**  
**   


“Wow, asking a woman to take your last name is a big deal, even if she is... what are the kids calling it these days? Your baby mama?” Porthos was nursing what was by all accounts his seventh beer of the night.

“I don’t get it,” young d’Artagnan protested, not fathoming why anyone would think twice about the honor and the glory of adopting his family name. “She’s my wife! Shouldn’t she have the same name as I?”

“She’s your wife, not your chattel wench, JJ,” Aramis sneered. “Let the hippie keep her own name if it’s so important to her.” He turned to the man behind him, “And stop drunkenly copping a feel on my ass, Adam!”

“What?” Athos looked down at his own hand, surprised, and allowing his face to dissolve into a complacent grin when faced with the evidence of his own doings. “Oh. Sorry. I’m old.”

“I don’t even know what kind of an excuse that is,” Aramis looked exasperated.

“Sometimes, I need support to stand.”

“It’s because you’re three sheets to the bloody wind; not because you’re old.”

“That must be why I’m groping you,” Athos nodded agreeably. “I’m _sooooo_ pissed.”

“Hey, how did you guys pick _your_ names, anyways?” Giving up on any semblance of continuing the discussion about his family life, d’Artagnan tried a tangent.

“Well, we wanted them to rhyme with _this_ asshole’s name, obviously.” Aramis rolled his eyes at Athos, who shrugged and demonstratively placed his hands behind his back. “At the end of the day, I’m pretty sure I just pulled mine out of the Scrabble box.”

Porthos emitted a good-natured laugh. “I can attest to that! What a stroke of luck for you to pull those letters. You could have ended up with anything... really... like Anus?”

Before Aramis could strike him, d’Artagnan quickly placed himself in between the two men and quickly redirected, “What about you, Porthos?”

“I was drinking a port... and feeling lazy.”

“Let them not say alcohol has done us no good!” Athos raised his beer in toast and clinked glasses with his drummer.

“Fascinating,” d’Artagnan concluded outloud, despite having exactly the opposite thought.

“Really, the best decision we made that night,” Aramis said, suddenly looking nostalgic, “was to change our name from bloody ATHOS to Common Goals.”

Athos and Porthos laughed, sharing in a joke that d’Artagnan could not even grasp at, as evidenced by his confused face.

“Oh, Little Alamo,” Porthos took mercy on him, “That’s because Rochefort had _ATHOS 4 EVER_ tattooed on his forearm!”

D’Artagnan found himself immediately sharing in the glee. “Oh my gosh, y’all, that’s brilliant!”

“What a fuckwit,” Athos concurred.

“I pity that twat,” Aramis added.

A sudden lull in the conversation was filled with with one of Aramis’s fawning sycophants, a roadie named Bazin, appearing with a tray of shots, which were all duly shot back by those assembled.

“What’s this?” Athos suddenly pointed to a small envelope which had apparently been perching on the corner of the tray. 

Bazin shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know, sir. I had not noticed it before, sir.”

“Is it the bill?” Aramis asked, calmly, picking up the piece of paper and twirling it in his fingers. Upon closer examination, the bill theory had to be ruled out. “JJ, this has your name on it - see? ‘Jimmy Joe.’”

“Fuck! I hate being called that!” the young man snapped, and tore the envelope out of Aramis’s hand. He opened it, and quickly scanned the contents of the note which had been located inside. As his eyes moved quickly across the page, his hand trembled and his facial expression grew remarkably slackened, apparently as a result of mounting shock.

“Great Scott, d’Art!” Porthos exclaimed, having to prevent JJ from suddenly collapsing. “What is the matter with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“C -- C -- Connie...” the young man stammered and passed the note to Athos, who quickly read its contents out loud.

_Dear Common Goals Assholes,_

_If you would like to ever see Jimmy Joe’s pregnant wife alive again, you will immediately surrender all the lyrics Aramis has been working on for your upcoming new album. You will be contacted in due time with drop off instructions. Do not involve the coppers, or else Little Miss Goodskies will start losing fingers._

_Sincerely,  
Go Fuck Yourselves_

“Cuntface!” Aramis was the first to explode. “Cunty cuntface!”

“You’re jumping to conclusions there, aren’t you?” Athos interfered before Aramis had an aneurism. “JJ, call your wife. How do we even really know anyone has her? And you,” he turned towards Aramis again, “You don’t know this is Milla’s doing.”

“Of _course_ it’s Milla’s doing! Who else would be such a cunt? And I’ll tell you right now, I’m _not_ giving some of my best lyrical works to some washed-up bint just because she used to polish your sad trombone!”

“Hot damn!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, slamming his phone down after repeated failed attempts at getting in touch with Connie. “We’re not giving it to her because she used to polish... _whatever!_ We’re giving it to her because she has my wife!”

“Look, everyone, chill the fuck down. We can’t know that for sure,” Athos pointed out. 

“Yes we can! I don’t know why you’re even defending her!” Aramis was clearly outraged.

Porthos, who had spent this entire time, scratching his head, lost in salacious contemplations of whether or not to tell Aramis that he had an orgy in their personal library the night before, finally cleared his throat.

“Ahem, look... Athos is right. We shouldn’t overreact. We got very little to go on. Let’s all just... go back to our place and regroup and see what Treville might have to say about this whole thing.”

“Porthos, thank you for being the voice of reason,” Athos gestured for the limo and the band quickly exited through the kitchen. The last thing they needed at that moment was to encounter some overzealous paparazzo, because there was no telling who might end up punching such a hapless personage in the face that night.

JJ, who had not been able to contain his visible trembling, decided to lock himself in the bathroom for the foreseeable future, or at least until the arrival of their manager. The last thing he heard as he was locking the door was a heart-rending outcry from Aramis, followed by “You sprayed my best art books with she-juice, you fucking barbarian!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 9: The Wife of Athos**

****

The funny thing about Athos, d’Artagnan thought, was that there was nothing inherently funny about Athos. Even when he was being funny, there was a certain gravitas to his mirth. It was even the mere thought of “the laugh of Athos” that sounded entirely devoid of any levity. In fact, d’Artagnan decided, adding “of Athos” to anything, automatically elevated the thing to some kind of upper echelon of being.

“That’s the beer of Athos. Hands off.”

“I wasn’t..,” JJ tried to mumble, but Aramis did not look amused. “I’m done. I don’t need another beer anyways.”

He was not sure why he had agreed to come out to a bar in the first place, all things considered. Connie was definitely missing, and Treville seemed to agree with Aramis’s assessment that the most likely kidnapper was indeed “Cunty Cuntface” herself. Things were looking bleak.

“I’m switching to cognac,” Aramis declared.

“Good idea,” Athos had appeared from somewhere hidden by the fog machine and brought his sacred and protected beer to his lips.

“Come away?” Aramis asked the other man quietly. Athos furrowed his eyebrows and drained the entire pint.

“I’m not done here yet.”

“You are. You’ve been done for the past hour.”

It occurred to JJ, that this aforementioned hour ago was exactly the last time any of them had seen Porthos, after the latter announced he was going to the broom closet with a drooling waitress.

“You’re not my fucking mother.” Athos squinted and jiggled the empty glass in the air, signaling a refill, which did not fail to materialize. The fog machine was starting to get on d’Artagnan’s nerves, as it seemed to make the entire exchange even more ominous. “Or... are you?”

“You’re an asshole. I’m leaving.” Aramis shot a look towards the young bassist. “You staying?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.” D’Artagnan wasn’t sure of the accuracy of his own words nor the extent of his ability to live up to them, but he was not in the mood to return to his place yet, haunted as it was by the absence of his wife. Aramis shrugged and, with another hopeless look towards his other companion, disappeared into the faux-fog.

“What’s the deal with _you_ tonight?” JJ sat down and slowly fingered his own empty glass, contemplating another drink. “It’s not _your_ wife who’s been abducted. Why were you just such a jerk to Aramis?”

“My young friend,” Athos snickered. “There is, how shall I say... _reason_ to my madness. Specifically, it is this: I am a dick.” And with these words the mirth of Athos became self-evident in a somewhat demonic fit of glee.

“Yes, I’m glad you find being a dick so profoundly amusing.” The young man sighed rather demonstratively. 

“Your knocked-up wife is gone - you should be happy!”

“Really? Seriously? Not even you could possibly be so callous!”

“Trust me, d’Art, nothing good has ever come from falling in love with women.” Athos sipped his new beer more slowly.

“What would you even know about that? From what I’ve observed, you’re clearly not capable of love!” D’Artagnan was a little ashamed of this latest outburst, and hid his embarrassment by beckoning for another refill on his own drink.

“Let me tell you a little story. About love.” Athos burped to punctuate this statement.

“I am on the edge of my seat,” JJ said in a way that was supposed to be sarcastic, except that he did actually lean in quite significantly, so that his head was almost touching the head of the other man. The eyes of Athos smoldered in the foggy darkness.

“This is a story about my friend,” Athos commenced. “My friend...”

“You mean _you_?”

“What the fuck?”

“You’re just saying ‘my friend’ but actually you mean you, right?”

“Bloody hell, Jimmy Joe! I said ‘my friend’ and I mean my fucking friend, right?” Athos momentarily looked like he was going to murder something. Possibly JJ’s face.

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan mumbled and hung his nose into his glass. “Go on.”

“My friend,” Athos continued, incidentally muttering Asshole under his breath, “He fell in love once. This girl was beautiful. A ten! I mean a real looker, as you Texans say.” Ignoring a sneer from d’Artagnan, he went on. “She professed her love to him as well and so this imbecile married her. He gave her everything he had: his love, his money, his name... his music.”

“Are we still talking about _your friend_?”

“Do you wish to go on having a face?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please continue.”

Athos did.

“They got matching tattoos on their wedding day. She loved tattoos. She had this really sexy tramp stamp of a fleur-de-lys that my friend found particularly appealing.”

“Is this relevant? Skanky tattoos?”

“Very.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Well, to make a long story short... They were epic, in bed, you know, sexually. There was nothing that my friend would not have done for this woman. So, one night, he agreed to have a threesome with her and another member of their band.”

“So they were in a band together?” D’Artagnan could not suppress his growing smirk.

“Shut the hell up, JJ! Just let me finish the damn story without anymore interrupting!” Athos did not even seem particularly as angry as he appeared to be weary and almost defeated. Demonstratively, d’Artagnan placed his hand over his own mouth, signaling to his companion to go on with his narrative. “So, there they were, in bed together, my friend, his wife, and the bassist of their band.” Athos shot d’Artagnan a quick look and added, “Shut the fuck up, JJ.” Athos was speaking very quickly now. “At last, dawn was beginning to break, and, thanks to a cocktail of drugs, everyone was wide awake, and in the middle of... er.... it. So, my friend flipped the other man over, about to, uh... yeah. And that’s when he saw it.”

“What? What did he see?” Young JJ was truly rapt by the twisted narrative now.

“The other fleur-de-lys. The fucker had a matching tramp stamp! They had been lovers! _UGH, ASSHOLE._ ” At this, Athos downed the remains of his drink in one fell swoop. “This has forever cured me of poetic, beautiful women, professing their love!”

“You said ‘me’!”

“Oh my _fucking_ God, JJ!”

“Is it true then? Did you poke out his eye with your... cock???”

At this, Athos unleashed another outpouring of raucous laughter.

“You’re fucking shitting me, right? You don’t actually believe he lost his eye in a blow job incident with me, do you?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, sincerely. “So, what happened then?”

“There may or may not have been an altercation. Maybe a little bit of attempted murder. I’m not sure. The important part for you to remember is that she was a WHORE and the man I thought was my friend was a MAN WHORE. The end.”

“Holy cow, Athos!”

“I’m not even going to dignify that outburst with a response.”

“That’s one batshit story!”

“I shall never love again.” Athos struck a poetic pose, his profile outlined sharply against the lights and the emissions of the fog machine.

“I hope you realize like what a douchebag you sound when you say that. Especially since Aramis has never done anything to betray you.” D’Artagnan was sobering up significantly.

“Aramis? What does _he_ have to do with anything?”

“Uh... I... Well, aren’t you... er...” Realizing there would be no way to end this conversation with a positive outcome, d’Artagnan was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to have it end entirely. “Uh... so drunk,” he announced, and dropped his head onto the table, pretending to be asleep.

“Kids these days,” Athos mumbled and got up to motion for another drink. “Can’t drink for shit. And this one is a bloody rock star!”

  
**Chapter 10: In which two members of the band engage in unmitigated accuracy**   


  
**  
**   


We beg the reader to indulge us, as we are forced to shift our attention from following our young hero, in order to accurately represent the other events taking place during this time of the narrative, and follow Athos home, as he drunkenly staggered out of the bar.

The night air was chilly and despite the vast amounts of alcohol in his system, the leader of Common Goals found himself shivering. Never one to admit being bested by Nature, he attributed this to his mounting anger. Clearly, relating the story of Milla D’s betrayal had unsettled him, but moreover, he was unnerved by the young upstart’s observation about his other problem: namely, Aramis.

“Never betrayed me, my ass!” he mumbled to himself. “As if any bloody day now, I’m not going to wake up to find that asshole has donned some priestly garb and the only thing he’ll be singing then will be hymns in praise of the bloody Virgin!”

However, despite his angry supposings, when he returned to the House of Athos he found Aramis doing nothing untoward at all. The man stood in the middle of his living room, surrounded by bits of clothing with very few on his actual form, with Grimaud fussing over him with a tape measure and a mouth full of pins. Rather than placating his bad mood, Athos found that the scene of normalcy did nothing of the sort.

“You,” he growled at Grimaud, both men looking up at him with a start as he slammed the front door behind him, “Out. Now.”

Knowing better than to argue, Grimaud abandoned the bits of half altered costume, gathering his notions into a bag and disappearing without a word, leaving Aramis in the same position and in a state of utter dishabille.

“You could have at least let him finish,” Aramis snapped at the master of the house. 

“Finish?” Athos asked with a crooked smirk.

“My _measurements_? You’re insufferable tonight!” Aramis made a motion to remove himself, but Athos halted him with a gesture of his hand.

“Wait. I need to double-check your inseam.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Aramis cocked his eyebrow, giving Athos an unconvinced look.

“Should I accept anything less than perfection in your stage garb?” Athos stepped forward, sliding his hand up the inside of Aramis’s thigh.

“I think you’d be more successful if you were using a tape measure,” Aramis replied, unperturbed at this sudden turn of events.

“Tape measures are for amateurs,” Athos retorted, sliding his other hand along the cool skin of Aramis’s other thigh. “My hands are far more accurate instruments.”

“Perhaps,” Aramis cocked his head to the side. “Certainly, unlike your words, your hands hardly ever miss the mark.”

Athos traced his fingers along the seam of Aramis’s boxers, teasing just underneath the thin fabric. “My words? And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re far too drunk, and much, _much_ too much an assole, for me to be having any kind of an adult conversation with you right now.”

“So... you don’t want to talk then?” Athos slid his hand up Aramis’s remaining garment, fingers brushing against his cock and rather satisfyingly finding him already half-hard. “It’s true that what I want has very little to do with talking.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Aramis replied, pressing into the touch a little despite himself. “Well in that case,” he leaned a little closer to Athos, his lips brushing gently past his earlobe, “Since you don’t intend on talking... Do you know what’s even more accurate than your hands?” Aramis gave Athos a complacent grin.

Athos startled, somewhat drunkenly, and swayed back a bit, his fingers involuntarily tightening around the other man’s sack, eliciting a soft gasp. “What’s that?”

“Your _mouth_ , you idiot.”

Briefly considering and discarding the idea of annoyance at Aramis’s order - since that was his intention, in any case - Athos reacted by firmly asserting his control over the situation, picking up the man and throwing him over his shoulder. He smirked at Aramis’s indignant splutter.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Exactly what you suggested,” Athos replied, stopping at the edge of the bed to deposit Aramis rather ungracefully into the pillows. He then began to work on his clothing, shedding them with all of the expert speed of a rock star used to impromptu fucking. “Now then,” he started, rather unceremoniously lifting and spreading his bandmate’s legs in the air with his hands, “Where were we? Ah yes... measuring your inseam.”

“Even for you, this foreplay is rather wanting,” Aramis started, but was quickly distracted by Athos’s mouth pressed to the inside of his thigh, nipping sharply in punishment for his words. He drew a sharp breath at the feel of the teeth, sliding a hand into Athos’s hair to encourage more. “God...”

“Don’t pray to anyone else but me in bed,” Athos muttered, licking a wet stripe up his thigh and giving a soft noise of frustration upon encountering the other man’s underwear. “Why the fuck are you still dressed?”

“Because you frightened Grimaud away?”

A sharp slap on the behind interrupted Aramis’s feeling of amusement.

“Ow?”

“Saucy boys get punished.” Athos despoiled Aramis of the remnants of his undergarments with his teeth, yanking at the band a bit ferociously when it refused to give, his hands busy digging into the firm flesh of his lead singer’s fine ass.

“Dammit, Athos, I just bought those!” Aramis gave a whimper as the elastic finally obeyed his lover and broke, leaving him naked and rapidly hardening under Athos’s insistent ministrations.

“That’s what you get for wearing underwear in my presence.”

Aramis’s fingers tightened in his lover’s hair, trying to urge him to do more than just tease. “Come on, at least make it worth it....”

“Be careful, or I’ll spank you again,” Athos threatened, before choosing to put his mouth to better use. He ran his fingers over Aramis’s asshole as his lips slid down the shaft of his lover’s erection, teasing without penetrating, giving a low, amused humm around his cock as Aramis squirmed a little under him.

“Even drunk, you’re a fucking tease,” Aramis managed, quietly gasping as Athos swallowed him to the hilt, one finger pressing inside him. “Yes. Fuck, more already.”

Athos was apparently infernally set on going at his own damn pace, his tongue languidly caressing the underside of his lover’s engorged cock, occasionally slipping teasingly into the slit. Aramis grasped at the surrounding pillows, for it was the only thing he could do to prevent himself from forcing all of his lower bits into Athos’s face and fucking himself on his infuriatingly solitary finger.

As if sensing his frustration, Athos’s finger departed just long enough to return slick with lube, easing back inside along with a second, fucking him slowly. Athos gave a low, pleased groan around Aramis as he continued to blow him, easing back to flick his tongue against the head of his cock as his fingertips twisted inside him just so, leaving Aramis seeing stars. “Love it when you’re so desperate for my cock.”

“If I admit to it, will you hurry up and fuck me?” Aramis tried to grind down onto Athos’s fingers, giving a soft growl of frustration when they eased away.

“If you admit to it, I will fuck you,” Athos replied, contrarily, though despite the threat he reached to grab a condom, rolling it on before looking back at Aramis with an expectant quirk of one eyebrow.

“Fine. I’m utterly gagging for it,” Aramis replied, biting his lip on a moan as Athos pressed close, letting his cock slide slowly between the cheeks of his fine ass as he rocked against him without making any move to do more. “Athos....”

Despite his earlier drunken playfulness, the Athos that looked back at him was strangely somber, eyes dark. “Do you actually want this?”

“This? This fucking?” Aramis tried to rock up against him. “Yes, dammit.”

“This, all of this. You and I, and fucking, and the band, and everything.”

Aramis gave a slightly aggravated growl. “Ignoring the fact that this isn’t exactly the ideal time for deep discussions about philosophy and life goals, yes. Why the hell else would I put up with your drunken asshole antics? Now fuck me, goddammit.”

It seemed to be enough for Athos, who pulled Aramis’s legs up over his shoulders, claiming his body with slow, insistent thrusts until he was buried to the hilt. For a moment he held still, savoring the tight heat of Aramis’s body around his cock and the little pleading, frustrated whimper that escaped Aramis’s mouth when he rocked against him. Then Aramis’s fingers clenched at his hips, pulling him closer. “Dammit, Athos!”

“Impatient little cockslut,” Athos growled, giving him a feral grin and acceding to his demands, hips snapping into his lover as Athos set a hard pace, pressing closer and almost bending Aramis in two. He let his mouth fall to Aramis’s neck, kissing and sucking at the tender skin as a means to further possess him, biting at his collarbone just to hear Aramis cry out and arch up against him, a hand tangled in Athos’s hair to encourage more. These were the rare moments when Athos could forget about all the shit going on in their world: forget about ex-wives, and asshole ex-bandmates, and meddling managers, and everything else. There was nothing but this, nothing but the pleasure of Aramis’s body, the lick of pain from his fingers digging into Athos’s shoulders, nails rending his back. There was nothing but Aramis’s voice, requests and orders for more, the shuddering cries of ecstasy that Athos pulled from his throat as their bodies came together in practiced harmony of pleasure. There were no thoughts of Aramis leaving or betraying him or all the other grisly images that his conversation with d’Artagnan had awoken in his mind; for a short while everything was perfect.

“Please,” Aramis gasped, bucking up against him as much as he could. “God, harder - fuck, make me come - !”

Athos gave a soft growl at the challenge, pushing himself up on his arms and using his lover’s body unrestrainedly. Aramis was completely disheveled underneath him, each thrust jarring his body, his cock flushed and hard and leaking against his perspiring abs. A few thrusts was all it took to bring his lover to climax, crying out and arching under him as his seed painted slick streaks on his chest. The sight of it, watching Aramis completely lost to passion was the last straw, and Athos’s own passion reached its pinnacle, pleasure shuddering hot and bright through every nerve as he came deep in Aramis’s ass.

“Feel better?” Aramis asked, almost purring with satisfaction, fingers reaching up to stroke through Athos’s hair.

“Much,” Athos replied, shifting to let Aramis’s legs down to wrap around his waist. Finally he leaned in to press a kiss to his lover’s mouth, slow and tender and lingering, allowing himself to feel just a little adoring and affectionate in the aftermath of the quality fucking.

“Good,” Aramis replied, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, and, as they curled up together and drifted off to sleep, Athos blessedly didn’t think about anything at all.

  
**Chapter 11: In which people have all sorts of ideas, none of them particularly helpful**  


  
**  
**  


When our four protagonists met up at the studio the following day, as was their habit, JJ was looking quite the worse for wear, having spent apparently a nearly sleepless night trying to wrap his mind around his wife’s kidnapping and how it might have related to the utterly bizarre story “shared” in a drunken stupor by their band’s leader the night before. On the contrary, Athos seemed in excellent spirits.

“What are you smiling about?” JJ asked, with more than a hint of apprehension inherent in such an inquiry.

“I had a most excellent morning,” Athos grinned. “I woke up completely hung over, went into an online casino room, and proceeded to lose about the entire mortgage on the studio _and_ the studio apartment!”

JJ was horrified.

“ _Why_ is this worth smiling about?”

“Well, because I won it all back - obviously!” Athos made a grandiose gesture around the studio and shrugged. “Although, I did sort of lose Aramis’s name to a hotel chain... and also, most of my self-respect. But that’s besides the point.”

“You lost my - _what???_ ” Aramis, who had been feverishly going through entire manuscripts of his song lyrics, lifted his eyes off the page and turned sharply towards the others.

“Your _name_. Well, just the ‘Aramis’ part, really. Not your _actual_ name.”

“What the bloody _fuck_ , Athos!”

“You could have used mine,” Porthos offered. “I wouldn’t have minded hot chicks fucking in me.”

“Not helping,” Aramis hung his head and JJ could have sworn he heard him whimper.

“Hotel chains aside,” Athos breezed past the subject with the ease of someone long used to steering others away from things that would incriminate himself, “we still have to deal with the bitch.”

Porthos nodded sagely. “I’m sure we can give her something. Some crap. Then we can get back Frills before she’s forever lost to that world of sin and debauchery.”

Aramis bristled, already in poor spirits from Athos’s gambling adventures. “I don’t write crap!”

“Not even when you’re wasted?” JJ inquired, genuinely doubtful of the truth of Aramis’s claim.

“Never!”

“Aramis writes with the gift of God,” Porthos informed in sagely. “And when he opens his mouth, Angels fly out.”

“Yes,” Athos added too quietly for JJ to hear properly, “He has many divine gifts.”

“I’m _not_ forgiving you!” Aramis hissed at Athos.

“Also,” Porthos added, oblivious to the murderous glare from Aramis as he spoke, “Aramis honestly believes he is God's gift to humanity and that to sexually prefer one gender would be to deprive half the world of His beneficence.”

“What the hell does _that_ have to do with anything!” Athos exploded.

 

“Just saying,” Porthos shrugged.

“There must be something!” JJ was growing desperate and, in his agitation, yanked the stack of papers out of the hand of Aramis. “What about this one... ‘Hidden Passions?’”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Aramis looked like he was about to have a stroke. “Why, you might as well take my name, and my whole bloody heart too, if I’m giving anyone the lyrics to ‘Hidden Passions!’”

Athos liberated the lyrics from JJ, perching on a stool and looking through them as the others continued to argue. They’d only just started recording this one, and they hadn’t gotten to the point yet where he could hear the song in his sleep.

_You’re hurt and broken_

_But I won’t let you be alone_

_This world is loveless_

_And your sympathies are gone_

They were good, Athos had to admit, even for Aramis’s normal level of skill. Something about the words resonated with him, as if they were more than just pretty rhymes to win over the crowd. He remembered cringing a bit, as he wrote the music for the bridge to the chorus.

_Healing  
I’ll make you feel soothed  
Trust me  
I am the one_

But once he got past that word that seemed to give him hives - trust - and reaching the chorus again, his hand trembled.

_I want to wash away the echoes of your youth  
I want to lick away your wounds and be your all  
I want to strip away your sadness and your truth  
I want to satisfy the hidden passions of your soul_

“Do you know what I fucking put into my lyrics?!” Aramis nearly exploded, pinning JJ back against one of the amps with sheer rage. “My heart and soul goes into that, it isn’t just some shit you can give away!”

“We’re not giving her anything,” Athos said suddenly, standing up and knocking over the stool. “We’ll figure out something else.” And then, needing to get away and calm his nerves, he locked himself in the sound booth with the lyrics and pulled the hidden bottle of whiskey out of the back of the file cabinet.

Silence reigned over the studio as they all stared at the slammed door. “Jeez,” d’Artagnan muttered. “What’s his problem?”

“Maybe this is a dumb idea,” Porthos offered tentatively, “But couldn’t we just give her fake lyrics? Aramis, couldn’t you write some trite shitty teeny bopper crap and just give her that?”

“You want me to suck _on purpose?_ ” Aramis looked like he was on the verge of tears, notwithstanding the fact that Porthos’s idea struck him as far less than dumb.

“Fuck it, you guys!” young d’Artagnan suddenly had his fill of everyone else’s egos getting in the way of his one true love. “Y’all do whatever you want, but I’ve gotta try getting into Milla D’s compound to see if Connie’s there. I can’t just sit here and help Aramis write fake lyrics!”

“I don’t need help writing intentional shit!” Aramis shot back, still caught between indignation and depression.

“Sure - whatever!” JJ threw his jacket on and looked ready to storm off. “I gotta get out of here before Athos gambles my ass and my soul away too! I’ll see y’alls later.” He didn’t really have a plan, but storming off half-cocked was something that he was intimately familiar with doing, and he was sure he’d figure it all out by the time he had to do something proactive.

  
**Chapter 12: In which d’Artagnan makes some discoveries and gets more than he bargained for**  


  
**  
**  


The first thing that d’Artagnan became aware of upon waking was the scent of cheap bar perfume; the sugary kind that was meant to disguise other, more questionable smells and seldom did so. It made his head throb, as did the thin fingers of light that streamed from the tiny gaps in the thick curtains. He became vaguely cognizant of someone’s foot, resting gently against the side of his head, and slowly and surreptitiously slid further, only to end up lying face down on the unfortunately abused carpet. It smelled unmistakably of spilt beer, something that didn’t help the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was something poking his ass rather uncomfortably, and he reached down to pull away a woman’s high heeled shoe, which was sticky with some half-dried crusty white substance he did not wish to contemplate.

The last thing that he could distinctly remember was Rochefort’s grinning face in the darkness of the room, which had by then become the den of debauchery he had been expecting when he embarked upon his self-appointed mission. He could almost taste the bitterness of the Campari-filled beverage, and possibly something else. It could have been Vermouth, but given his current state of mind, he could no longer say that with any certainty.

“Ugh. Ack.” He could not prevent these unintelligible syllables from leaving his dry mouth, as he abortively scanned the room for any evidence of his clothes. There weren’t any. Milla’s personal assistant, for he was beginning to recognize the owner of the foot, snored softly and nudely on the rumpled bed, along with a few other mostly naked girls passed out around him. D’Artagnan did not recall boning them and shot his cock an accusatory look, just in case.

Realizing that there were more pressing demands than even clothes, d’Artagnan carefully extracted himself from the tangle of limbs. Not wanting to leave the room completely starkers, he picked up the nearest article of clothing he came upon, which happened to be some grotesquely frilly hot pink and black concoction, and wrapped it around his waist as he left the room.

“If I were a bathroom, where would I be?” he mused quietly to himself as he scanned the hallway. He opened the door on his left only to be met with the sight of a bathtub full of naked people, with one girl sleeping uncomfortably curled up on the toilet. “Jeez Louise,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He’d have to find a different bathroom.

Managing to avoid the dozens of beer cans and vodka bottles that seemed to carpet the floor and every available surface, d’Artagnan tried the next door, which revealed a surprisingly empty master bedroom. Memories of his mission surfaced through the hangover-induced haze, and he slipped inside. It was becoming unbelievable, even to him, that he would be able to locate Connie in this den of iniquity, for vast though it seemed to him the night before, it was simply not secure enough to hide a hostage. Still, he diligently checked all the closets, and finding nothing but some inexplicable leather jock-straps, a pair of sparkly heels that were too large to have belonged to a human female, and a pair of someone’s discarded pantyhose, he directed his attention to the drawers of the bed stand.

The drawer in question appeared to contain nothing of value, except some rumpled sheets of music. He was about to put the sheet music back into the drawer, when some scribbles in the corner caught his eye. He recognized the handwriting almost immediately because their own sheet music had been fraught with this chicken scratch since the day he remembered being a member of Common Goals: obviously, this was the handwriting of Athos.

Hearing a sound in the hallway, d’Artagnan’s heart stopped. Quickly, he grabbed the sheets of music and darted into the closet, closing the door behind him and trying to will his pounding heart into silence.

“What have you done with that little twerp, Rochefort?” he heard Milla’s distinctly shrill, when not singing, voice.

“I thought I left him drugged with those hookers in the guest bedroom before I called your contact at The Globe.” D’Artagnan heard steps moving back and forth in close proximity to his hiding place and gripped the music tighter in his sweating hand. “The paparazzi should be here any minute.”

“Well, it’s no use if he’s not found naked with a gaggle of whores!” Milla snapped and the voice moved away from the closet. “Find him, Rochefort, and do whatever it takes to make sure they catch him _in flagrante delicto_!” D’Artagnan’s feet, as if moving of their own volition, quietly slipped into the discarded pair of drag queen heels as he took the dress from around his waist and slipped it over his head.

“He’s probably just puking his guts out,” Rochefort’s voice distanced itself too. “I’ll check the bathrooms.”

This was all the prompting that d’Artagnan required, and as soon as he heard the door close behind his tormentors, he stuffed the sheets of music down the front of his dress and shot for the small patio connecting the master bedroom to the garden terrace below.

 

The heels were cumbersome, but nothing compared to the pink monstrosity billowing around the young man’s chest, as he cleared the bushes, and ran like a man possessed in the direction of the Common Goals studio, and the apartment of Athos adjacent to it.

Running up the stairs in a state of increasing dishabille, d’Artagnan pounded on the door like a madman. It was by his estimate around five o’clock in the morning, too early to be visiting, by anyone’s account, but the young man could not contain himself a moment longer.

Surprisingly, the door was opened not by Athos, but by Grimaud, who was dressed in an entirely too formal-looking dark velvet robe and stared at him blurily from behind a dainty cup of coffee.

Foregoing his usual laconic nature, Athos’s personal assistant squinted at the newcomer and inquired, “Who the fuck are you, bitch?”

“I really have to pee!” d’Artagnan blurted, pushing past him without thinking and running down the hall, managing to shed the horrible drag heels without breaking an ankle.

“Hold on there, hussy!” Grimaud shouted after the intruder. “Wait just a bloody minute, glitter-heels!”

D’Artagnan was vaguely aware of a half-asleep, half-furious, completely naked Athos appearing at the door to his bedroom, but some things simply couldn’t wait. Brushing past the master of the house, he threw himself into Athos’s bathroom and locked the door behind him, flipping up the lid of the toilet and finally finding long-delayed relief. As the frantic demands of his bladder diminished, he started to pull the crumpled papers out from the front of his dress, staring at them in confusion. He heard the voice of Athos from beyond the door asking, “Was I just touched by a woman? I’m repulsed. Get me a beer.”

“I’m not a woman, you assface!” d’Artagnan called back, wondering just exactly how much beer he’d drunk the night before. “I had to leave in a hurry and your ex kidnapped my clothes!” Finally flushing, the young man emerged from the bathroom. “And why the fuck are you naked?”

“It’s five o’fucking clock in the morning, you blistering pain in my ass,” Athos shot back.

D’Artagnan stopped for a moment, trying to peer behind him into the room. “Oh golly, I’m sorry. Did you have someone over?”

“Excuse me, fuckwad? Who the hell do you expect to find at my house at this ungodly hour?”

“Er...” d’Artagnan looked momentarily confused. “Aramis? Is this a trick question?”

 

“How dare you cast such aspersions upon the honor of our...” At this precise moment, a loud slam of the back door echoed throughout the house. “Lead singer,” Athos finished.

“But I thought you...”

“Seriously, _what_ are you wearing?” Athos interrupted him with an accompaniment of gushing laughter. “Are you missing Frills so much that you’ve decided to start dressing like her?”

“Athos, for the love of fucking Christ! This is not a laughing matter!” And brandishing the sheet music, the young man pushed past his friend into his master bedroom. “I have _things_ to tell you!”

Athos adjusted his facial expression into a more appropriately somber variety.

“All right, I see you have the _things_. But first, please get out of that ridiculous outfit.”

“You first.”

Athos blinked. Then he pulled a lovely purple dressing gown out of his closet and disappeared into it. “Anyways... beer?”

D’Artagnan plopped down onto the mattress, giving it a suspicious poke, as if half-expecting to find more naked people hidden in the folds.

“I think coffee would be best.”

As if out of thin air, a small cup of espresso appeared before him, loomed over by Grimaud’s sneering visage. The young man shot it back in one gulp and rubbed his face as if trying to waken himself from his nightmare. The pink concoction still hung loosely off his shoulder and he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the strap. “Er... I don’t suppose you have anything I can borrow?”

“Not in your size,” Grimaud retorted, but bit his tongue underneath his employer’s scathing look. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Please. And you may go back to not speaking,” Athos added. Cautiously he took the crumpled papers from d’Artagnan’s hand, as if expecting them to be covered in some remnant of the boy’s obvious night of debauchery. “What... where.... where did you get this?”

“In your ex’s bedside table,” d’Artagnan shot back. “After she kidnapped my clothes.”

Instead of the expected understanding, d’Artagnan watched as Athos’s face darkened to an unprecedentedly frightening shade of purple, matching his robe. His voice, when he spoke, was low and carefully controlled. “What. Were you. Doing. With Milla?”

“Whoa.” D’Artagnan slid back on the bed instinctively. “Chill, dude. I was looking for Connie. I think someone... possibly Rochefort... roofied my drink and I woke up with no clothes and a bunch of naked groupies and while I was trying to find the bathroom I found those instead. I think they were trying to set me up.”

“This... this is very serious.” Athos shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Call everyone! Get them over here!”

Athos silently rose and walked over to his bedstand, grabbing his mobile and quickly punching some numbers. The bed that d’Artagnan was sitting on suddenly vibrated, causing him to shoot up.

“Fuck! Why is your bed vibrating?!” D’Artagnan quickly pulled the bed covers down, only to reveal what appeared to be Aramis’s mobile.

“Well. Shit.”

“Er... Call Porthos,” d’Artagnan suggested and shut his eyes again, secretly hoping that it would make everything go away. Unfortunately Grimaud re-appeared at his elbow with a pair of neatly folded sweat pants and a worn Madonna t-shirt from the Material Girl era. His look directed at d’Artagnan as he handed them over seemed to imply a painful, murderous death if anything happened to them. Deciding that they were still better than the the dress, JJ started to strip down.

At that moment, the doorbell sounded, and Grimaud went to answer it with an audible sigh and another look of derision in d’Artagnan’s direction. These few moments of distraction were sufficient for the young man to slip into something more comfortable. When Grimaud reappeared again, he was accompanied by Porthos and Aramis, one looking more outraged than the other.

“This better be good,” Porthos grumbled, taking a second cup of espresso from Grimaud. “I have a very talented little tart waiting for me in my bed back at home.”

“And I can’t seem to find my phone,” Aramis bit his lip and blushed quietly to the roots of his immaculate hair.

“Ew,” d’Artagnan replied, silently pointing upon the bed.

“That’s weird,” Porthos shrugged. “Why is your phone in the bed of Athos?”

“D’Artagnan spent the night getting drunk with our mortal enemies and brought back these,” Athos said, thrusting out the pages of crumpled sheet music in an attempt to completely ignore Porthos’s question. “Also,” he added, “he got roofied by Rochefort.”

“What a sick fuck,” Porthos replied immediately, lip curling in disgust. D’Artagnan decided not to ask whether he was referring to Rochefort or himself. “Oh God, little peanut!” Porthos suddenly looked greatly concerned. “Did he take your behymen?”

“My _what?_ ”

“Your behymen. You know. Ass cherry.”

“Uh...” D’Artagnan decided not to mention the questionable stiletto from the morning. “I don’t think so.....”

“Well, that’s okay, then.” Porthos seemed satisfied. “GHB makes sex better, anyway.”

“Can you all shut the fuck up for just a bloody second?” Aramis, who had up till now been staring at the music that Athos handed to him, brought everyone’s attention back to the situation at hand. “D’Art, do you realize the gravity of your allegations?”

“What? Date rape?” Porthos inquired.

“No, you bloody fool! She’s been stealing our music!” Aramis flourished the pages at him. “This must have been part of her evil scheme all along - this is why she’s blackmailing us for the lyrics! She wants to record our own damn songs before we do!”

“Ugh. Bitch!” Porthos looked personally offended as he crossed his arms.

“You’re darn tootin’ right she is!” D’Artagnan nodded emphatically.

Porthos glanced to Athos. “Are you sure I can’t arrange to give her an embarrassing disease? I know people.”

“No!” Athos and Aramis shot him down in near-unison.

“Still have any doubts that she is Connie’s kidnapper?” Aramis addressed this to Athos, who looked about ready to vomit with disgust and shook his head.

“You guys,” d’Artagnan, who was finally starting to feel more like himself, thanks in part to the caffeine and in part to the fact that he was no longer dressed like RuPaul, spoke calmly, “We need a plan, y’all. And it better be a good one.”


	3. Chapter 3

  


**Chapter 13: Before the Concert**

The plan was two-fold: the first part consisted of Porthos’s original idea of handing the kidnappers fake lyrics in order to get Mrs. Goodskies-d’Artagnan back; the second part was the coup d’etat compliments of Emily Treville.

“The only way you’re going to prevent her from stealing your music,” she said calmly, once the band apprised her of the developments, “is if you get it out there first yourselves.” She had everyone’s rapt attention. “Now, I know you’re not done recording the album yet, but that’s a minor setback. What we need is maximum media penetration.”

“Uh... what?” JJ asked.

“I like it - maximum penetration!” Porthos beamed.

“Shut up, Porthos. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What exactly _are_ you talking about?” Athos asked.

“I’m talking about a massive free outdoor concert, the kind that will be so ridiculously over the top, that it’s going to be getting tweeted and Youtubed all over that bitch.”

“Yes! Go on!” Aramis was apparently completely on board.

“We’re talking lasers, screens,” she went on, “And whatever else ridiculousness you can think of - don’t worry about the cash - we’ll make it all up in DVD sales of the footage.”

“A blimp! We need a huge blimp!” Porthos suggested excitedly.

“Good idea, Porthos! You will repel off a blimp!” Treville enthused.

“Uh... that wasn’t... yeah, all right.”

“Into Buckingham Palace!” Aramis finished, rising out of his chair, as if he was an avenging angel about to slay a sea of heathens.

D’Artagnan stared at him. “Buckingham Palace? I don’t know how y’all do things in England, but there’s no fucking way you could throw a rock concert at the White House.”

Athos smirked in reply. “Don’t worry about that. Let’s just say the Queen owes us certain... favors.”

“I’ll get everything set up,” Treville told them, looking a little manic herself. “Clear your schedules of everything but practice for the next five days and finish writing the music for those damned songs. I’ll get the special FX guys in to see you, so think about what you want for pyrotechnics.”

“A dragon flame thrower,” Aramis said immediately.

“I like your spirit,” Treville nodded.

“Burning crosses,” Athos smirked.

“No burning religious symbols,” Treville replied immediately. “But we’ll burn something.”

“This all sounds righteously awesome,” JJ began, “But how can we be sure she’s going to give Connie back to us when we give her the fake lyrics?”

“Of course she will,” Aramis reassured him. “She’s not some machiavellian criminal mind - she’s just a no-talent wannabe who can’t write her own damn songs!”

“And if she tries anything,” Athos added, his eyes sparkling with a sinister light, “We’ll fucking kill her.”

“Um...” all eyes were on Athos. “We will?”

“Or something,” he added, looking pleased with himself.

“I’ll call some people,” Treville said, ignoring the proclamation of possible murder. “Get in touch with the bitch, Athos. Let her know you accept her terms if you can pick the place for the exchange.”

The smile Athos gave her was somewhat reminiscent of a shark descending on its prey. “You’re on.”

If Milla had been at all surprised to receive the call from Athos, given that “the kidnappers” were planning to make first contact about the drop off, she had not allowed it to visibly flabbergast her. Perhaps, the thought of finally having the complete collection of both Aramis’s lyrics and Athos’s music was too much for her to resist and she salivated at the thought of the newly found depth the world was about to discover underneath her shiny pop-princess veneer. Consequently, just as Aramis predicted, JJ’s wife was returned in one piece and at the appointed time.

“Thanks, whore,” Athos said, handing over a bundle of tawdry idiocy which Aramis had concocted the night before, putting little more effort into it than required to ensure the prose could conceivably fit the music.

_Hey I just met you._  
And this is crazy.  
But I'm on bath salts.  
And your face looks tasty. 

“Die, fuckface,” Milla replied, giving the packet a peremptory glance, and putting it in her purse with a satisfied leer.

“You wish,” Athos replied with a smirk.

“Whatever, asshole. I fucked your dad,” she added as an afterthought.

“My father died eight years ago! _GOD_. I hate you.” Athos contained his last homicidal urge. “And you’re a terrible liar. Ugh.”

After the exchange of such pleasantries, Connie was happily reunited with her young and eager husband, and the band returned to planning the final stage of their revenge: the most Epic Concert the world had ever seen, which would be talked about for at least three hundred years.

  
 **Chapter 14: The Concert**

  
****  


The day of the concert was sunny and glorious, as if Treville had bribed Apollo himself to chase the London fog away. There was word that the space in front of the mainstage had been full for hours, and that traffic was a near standstill for blocks around the Palace as people queued to try and get into the venue. They’d secured a few bands to entertain the crowds during the day, and they met at the airfield with more than enough time to get airborne and arrive at the venue for their triumphant entrance. The plan was to repel from the blimp (which had “COMMON GOALS: MUTUAL RESPECT TOUR” stenciled on it in blood-red letters) and onto the mainstage just as the sun was beginning to set. The blimp would then descend low enough to safely drop Treville and Connie onto one of the balconies of the Palace, then tether itself to the nearby Big Ben. Giant projection screens on each side of the blimp and the audio broadcast of the concert would allow the crowds gathered nearby at Victoria Tower Park and Parliament Square a taste of the festivities.

The tabloid mags proclaimed, “Common Goals to Unleash Either Epic Epicness or Epic Disaster Upon Londoners” and “An Orgy Expected at Buckingham Palace Compliments of Common Goals.”

In keeping with the extravagance of the day, each of the band members was dressed to the nines. Aramis’s black leather trousers hugged every curve of his shapely legs, his ruffled white poets blouse barely laced over his chest. Athos was all at once ruggedly manly and patriotic in a sleeveless union jack shirt, the tie around his neck more a suggestion of a tie than anything functional. Porthos, who would undoubtedly end up shirtless after the third song anyway, was in a plain black lyrca shirt and a blue tartan utilikilt. His knee-high boots had enough buckles and studs to possibly be considered deadly weapons. D’Artagnan regarded them with slight concern, wondering a little about Athos’s plan to “kill the bitch” if there was any trouble, but decided that there was no way that Milla could possibly get within a mile of the stage without someone noticing.

D’Artagnan, who up until now was a loyal adherent of the school of “rock stars wear ripped jeans and t-shirts,” wasn’t quite sure how he’d been talked into what he was wearing. He was still in jeans, at least, with a proper belt buckle, and they were still ripped. But the slashes that went all the way up both legs seemed a little excessive to him and he had serious concerns about somehow flashing the crowd and the Queen herself. His shirt was more comfortable - a regular button down with long tails that ended around his knees, and Grimaud had it screen printed with messy text and cursive script of the lyrics of the “Star Spangled Banner.” It was topped off with a leopard print cowboy hat, and while d’Artagnan had tried to tell him that no self-respecting cowboy would be caught dead in leopard print, Grimaud had informed him that it was either the hat or a leopard print scarf. The hat quickly won.

Porthos had assured JJ that he looked “Absofuckinglutely pimpin’,” but the real deal-sealer was when his very own Missus had offered to “fix him right up” and then proceeded to put both her hands in all the strategically ripped parts of his jeans, much to the desired effect. He did not even notice that the blimp had taken off, thanks to Connie’s distractions, and before he knew it, the Thames had stretched out beneath them like a friendly, sparkling serpent.

In the meantime, on the other side of the aircraft, Athos had been staring intently at Aramis, who was looking back at him with a look most closely resembling that of “The Fuck?”

“So, listen..,” Athos started, then seemed to think better of it. Then fixed Aramis with another painfully serious look.

“What is your problem?” the lead singer snapped.

“I guess... uh... yeah... No. What do you think about how the music turned out for ‘Hidden Passions’?”

“I like it,” Aramis replied.

“You like it... or... you ‘like’ it,” Athos made air quotes with his fingers, “and actually think it’s bloody shite?”

“When have I ever thought your music was any kind of shite?”

“I don’t know... I..,” Athos was starting to get the pained look again. “I guess I just wanted to make sure I did right by the lyrics. That I did right by _you_.”

“Athos..,” Aramis began to speak, but a flash of something blond in the corner of his eye suddenly interrupted his train of thought. “What the fuck are _you_ doing here, you goddamn hussy!”

Milla D, former bandmate and wife of Athos, did not look happy. “I’m here to fuck up your perfect little party, assheads,” she snarled, eyes narrowed. “Did you seriously think you could get away with giving me that ridiculous shit you call lyrics and expect me not to come after you?”

“Milla, what the fuck!” Athos rose up. “Isn’t it bad enough you already fucked up my _life?_ That you spread all sorts of lies about the band? That you kidnapped poor JJ’s _pregnant_ wife? And then left him drugged, naked, and probably molested, to be found by the paparazzi?”

“Yo. Word.” JJ nodded and stood behind Athos, his arms crossed menacingly across his chest. He’d very firmly told Constance to stay in the cockpit of the blimp until the situation was all taken care of.

“All is fair in love and war, baby,” Milla gave Athos a crooked grin, “And you know it’s always been both between us, Adam Athos.”

“Oh, you just shut your trap before I bitch-slap that pretty little smile right off your smug face, you fucking cunt!” Aramis probably would have done exactly as he had threatened, had he not been prevented by someone else bitch-slapping Milla first.

“Connie! I told you to... Oh...” Before JJ and any of the others could react, Milla and Connie were locked in a hair-pulling, eye-scratching cat fight. Both women were making screeching and growling noises like two banshees unleashed.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Treville appeared from the cockpit, then stopped short. “Oh God.”

“I don’t know, but I’m kind of turned on,” Porthos muttered. He glanced over at Aramis. “Should we get some pudding and charge admission?”

“Goddammit you whore, leave my woman alone!” JJ tried to push himself between the two women only to end up on the receiving end of someone’s punch to the gut.

“Not your costume!” Poor Grimaud, usually so reticent, could not prevent himself from crying out to save his creation from the enraged women’s talons.

“Someone do something!” Treville cried, completely outraged by the inactivity of the Y chromosome contingent of those assembled. Unfortunately, the invocation came too late, as Connie delivered a well-placed kick to the shin and Milla’s incredibly high stilettos went sliding along the floor, propelling her towards the open hatch of the blimp.

Somehow, she had still managed to latch onto Connie’s foot, dragging her along with her into the open air.

“Nooooooo!” Treville was the first of the stupefied audience to lunge forward towards the two precariously balanced women.

“If I fall, you’re coming with me, you little groupie!” Milla screamed, her nails digging into Connie’s ankle, as she dangled from the hovering aircraft.

“Let go of me, you fucking bitch!” d’Artagnan’s wife tried to kick her assailant off.

“I’m sick of this shit!” Treville bent over and extended her arm towards Milla. “Here, take my hand, Milla!” Finally, clutching at Milla’s arm and pulling her back into the blimp, Treville thought some semblance of sanity would finally be restored, and that the near-brush with death would knock some sense into the lovely blond head of her band’s nemesis. However, nothing could be further from the truth.

“Of course, all of you are totally too faggotty to actually rescue anyone yourselves,” Milla snapped in the direction of Athos, brushing debris off her knees.

“Oh goddammit, Milla,” Treville sighed. “You’re disgusting. Here, let me help you take a bath.” And, much to everyone’s amazement, she gave Milla a sudden powerful shove, sending her body out of the blimp and into the river below.

For a long moment they all stared after her, and the ripples they could see on the surface of the Thames beneath them. Finally Connie spoke, wrinkling her adorably upturned nose. “Ew.”

“Um... plausible deniability?” Athos suggested.

“There aren’t any cameras here,” Treville replied cooly, heading back to the cockpit. “Get your gear on, Gentlemen. It’s showtime.”

While he briefly contemplated the possibility of Milla both surviving the fall and the sludge of the Thames, Athos quickly moved on to more important things. The roar of the crowd as they repelled down onto the stage was deafening, and between that and the adrenaline rush from the descent, all he could think about was performing.

Even he had to admit that they had outdone themselves in arranging the concert. The crowd in front of the palace was a sea of cheering fans, clearly stoked to see them, with girls sitting on their boyfriend’s shoulders and people hanging off the palace fountains to try and get a better look. The small clouds of cigarette smoke and marijuana that wafted from many places in the crowd were blown away by the hint of a cool evening breeze, and when he struck the first chord on his guitar the audience reacted as if touched by a livewire, surging forward towards the stage, moving and moshing in time with the music.

His only regret was the necessity for barricades and security between the fans and the stage. Still, he made the best of the concert experience, hanging over the edge as far as he could to touch outstretched fingertips, locking eyes with hot women and hotter men, then racing to the other side of the stage to harass d’Artagnan by humping his bass while trying to play.

Treville met them backstage after the first set with Connie, each of them carrying a six pack of cold beer. Athos took a can and stabbed one of his spiked rings into the bottom, shotgunning the entire can in one go. “I’m a fucking golden god!”

“Don’t let it get to your head, you dick,” Treville replied, though she was grinning. “It’s a hell of a show, boys. Keep it up.”

They polished off the rest of the beer, bringing the last one to Porthos who had returned to the stage early for an impromptu drum solo just to soothe the raucous crowd.

Athos didn’t give another thought to the awkward, interrupted conversation he’d had with Aramis on the blimp. Not until the last song printed on the set list was “Hidden Passions,” not until he was playing the intro, the stage lights dimming to a golden glow as Aramis begun to sing.

 _“You’re hurt and broken, but I won’t let you be alone...”_ Aramis had slid his mic back into the stand and cupped it with both hands, leaning into it and crooning with eyes closed as if it were his lover. His long lashes fanned dark against pale, high cheekbones. _“This world is loveless, and your sympathies are gone...”_

Athos tried to look away, tried to focus on his picking, but it was all too much. It was too damn similar, too undeniable, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from Aramis as he sang.

 _“Healing… I’ll make you feel soothed. Trust me... I am the one.”_ His blue eyes looked over to Athos at that, meeting his gaze and holding it for a long moment as he continued into the chorus. _“I want to wash away the echoes of your youth, I want to lick away your wounds and be your all...”_

Athos shuddered at the mental images the words brought to mind, cock twitching in his trousers. His own obtuseness of past was crushing his chest like an anvil weight. How could he have been so blind?

 _“I want to strip away your sadness and your truth.”_ Aramis arched his back, the microphone resting in intimate proximity to his full lips, and for a brief moment locked eyes with Athos, finishing out the chorus.  
 _“I want to satisfy the hidden passions of your soul.”_ Athos was not entirely sure, since his pants were quite tight and he was more than half-drunk, but he suspected he might have come a little. He never felt more in love than at the moment he played the final chords and threw his guitar into the crowd.

  


**Chapter 15: After The Concert**

  


****  


The conclusion, or postscript, of the concert, dear readers, is an event documented well enough to be easily found by even the most casual of historical researchers. Thousands of cell phones, digital cameras and camcorders recorded the arrival of the Queen of England and her entourage, who proceeded to Knight the three British members of Common Goals for their contribution to the art and culture of the United Kingdom. Even our stalwart-but-American d’Artagnan was given an honorary Knighthood, and informed (or perhaps, strongly encouraged?) that he could upgrade his honorary Knighthood should he ever utilize his new marriage to achieve dual citizenship.

Sir Adam Athos, band leader and founder of Common Goals, rather inebriated and sweaty and elated and confused all at once, was then inducted into the Order of Merit. With the sword of King George touching each shoulder and his country’s monarch standing in front of him, his thoughts were shamefully far away from the crowd and the Queen and very much focused on what he wanted to do most in the world: Fuck Aramis.

Then, as if suddenly changing her mind about something, the Queen whispered, “Oh what the hell, my Uncle Edward, before abdicating his throne, was a recipient of the Order of the Golden Fleece. And I have enjoyed your performance so much, I now give it to you, Sir Athos.”

“But, Your Majesty...” Athos tried to mumble something in protest, lifting his mind momentarily out of the gutter.

“No, no. There is no man alive more deserving of this. Trust me. I know.”

As you can imagine, sweet readers, the what-the-bloody-fuckery of this moment has forever lived in equal parts fame and infamy throughout the world, and this concert is to this day known as the Most Epic Concert of All Time.

  


**Epilogue**

  


****  


Now, ardent devotees of historical research, such as ourselves, do not think this story would find completion without touching in quite a bit more detail on certain events following the concert. Especially as Adam Athos took such pains in alluding to them, nay describing them explicitly, in his blog, which we used as our source material.

Whilst everyone else ended the night out in a cataclysmic orgy of accolades, booze, and general camaraderie, the more intricate resolution to the evening belonged to our band leader and the newest recipient of the Order of the Golden Fleece, Sir Adam Athos. Having finally extricated himself from the crowd, and, quite disturbingly, from a flurry of drunken kisses compliments of Treville, who forced him to do a body shot off her own neck, and assured him that indeed he was a golden god, Athos nervously found his phone and sent a quick text.

“Where?”

“Studio?” came the equally efficient reply.

“15 min” Athos typed in.

A reply message quickly appeared, with a thumbs-up emoticon, indicating consent. Miraculously, despite the large amount of drunk people partying within the five block radius of the Palace, Athos managed to arrive at the studio just shy of the fifteen minute deadline. His date was apparently not quite so lucky, Athos figured at first. Then, suddenly, he found himself overcome with fear that it wasn’t traffic or drunken hordes that were keeping his companion away. What if he had misread the entire situation? What if the words of the songs had not been intended for him? What if they had been written for someone else? What if....

In the middle of this internal monologue, the door opened, and Aramis entered the studio, glitter and makeup streaking down his face, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat and champagne. The sight of him discombobulated Athos to the point of inarticulation. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a slight involuntary groan escaped his lips.

“Good Lord,” Aramis sighed. “You really are _that_ profoundly horny right now, aren’t you?”

Athos wanted to say something, something deep and meaningful. Instead, what came out was, “Well, aren’t _you?_ ” Then he immediately cursed himself for always saying the worst possible thing. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, trying to recover some semblance of his intentions. “I didn’t mean... I don’t know... well... it’s just that... there’s a reason you write all the lyrics, and not me. Right?”

“What the shit, Athos? Has all the Knighting gone to your fucking head?” Aramis approached and wrapped his arms around the other man’s neck. “You don’t have to speak. I know why you’ve summoned me here.” And Aramis had started to lean in for a kiss.

“Because I love you.”

Aramis stopped, a mere centimeter away from the lips of Athos, not certain of what to do with the utterance that just escaped and hung in the air between them now, almost thickly enough to touch.

“You..,” Aramis pulled back a bit. “You... are very drunk, yes. Yes. Let’s try this again.”

“No,” Athos shook his head in protestation and tried to pull the other man in closer again. “I’m not. I was. But I sweated it out. I mean... fuck.”

“Athos, please don’t say things you’re going to regret later. Let’s just fuck and we can just chuck it all up to a truly sensational day, right?”

He seemed so certain, and so insistent on his certainty, that Athos could not help but falter in his resolve. He wet his lips, looking down at Aramis. “So... it’s not about me, then.”

Aramis’s eyebrows knit slightly. “Now you’re not making any sense at all. If you mean this in the diva sense then yes, darling, everything is always about you.”

“No.” Athos was growing more and more disheartened with every word, but having already girded up his balls to get this far was determined to push until he got actual answers. “‘Hidden Passions.’ You can’t tell me that’s coincidence. Aramis....”

Aramis broke from his embrace wordlessly, pacing half way across the studio and stopping with his back to Athos. His voice, when he finally spoke, was strangely hollow. “That’s quite a thing to hear, coming from someone who professes that love is no better than death.”

It was all starting to make a strange sort of sense. He approached Aramis quietly, briefly distracted by the slender lines of his form and the curve of his ass. “Then this is why you’ve always acted like there was nothing between us but sex,” he said slowly, voicing his thoughts as he mused. “You thought I was just hot for your ass.”

“Aren’t you?” Aramis half turned to look at him with a smirk, but his voice was brittle.

“It is a very fine ass,” Athos agreed, wrapping his arms around Aramis’s waist and pressing up against his back, nuzzling his face into his hair. He pressed a kiss to his lover’s temple, voice soft when he spoke again. “I’ll admit it. The bitch broke my heart. I never wanted to love again, I never wanted to give anyone that kind of power over me. But I couldn’t help it. You made me feel despite everything. And I’m sorry I’ve been such a self-absorbed fuckwad that I haven’t been able to admit it until now.”

“That’s...” Aramis looked as if he was uncertain as to how to proceed. “Quite the excellent self-assessment there, Athos.”

“Yeah, all right, guess I deserve that.” Athos shrugged. “But I still love you. Smart-ass snarky remarks notwithstanding. Or, quite possibly, _because_ of them.”

“Prove it,” Aramis leaned in, intimately.

“How?”

“Prove that you trust me. Then, I will believe that you love me.”

“Will this involve me being naked?” Athos asked, inclining his head with a hopeful smirk. Aramis ran his hands up Athos’s chest, slowly wrapping the guitarist’s tie playfully around his fingers.

“It certainly does. Naked. And blindfolded.” Aramis gently pulled at the tie around the other man’s neck and held it before his face as an offering. “Well? Do you trust me?”

“You’re going to bring out the spreader bars, aren’t you?”

“I knew it. You don’t trust me.” Aramis let his arms fall with the tie.

“No, no! I do. Whatever. I love the spreader bars. Blindfold me. Fuck it.”

“If you don’t - “

“I do.” Athos stripped his tie off and tossed it over the drum set, followed directly by his shirt. Then he pulled a guitar case from the back of the rack, opening it up. Inside were a pair of black spreader bars with leopard-print fur lined cuffs attached to each end. They were tied together with one of Grimaud’s silk accent scarves. He held them out to Aramis in offering. “Take them. Tie me up. Fuck me.”

Aramis regarded him silently, and for a long moment Athos was worried that he’d flat out refuse, if for no other reason then to prove some obnoxious point. Then he reached out, smirking slightly as he took the bars and untied the scarf from around them. He leaned them up against the amp then approached Athos with the scarf held between his hands. “Lean forward and close your eyes.”

Athos did as bidden, feeling the silk whisper over his skin as Aramis knotted the tie securely over his eyes. “Don’t you usually strip someone before you blindfold them?”

“Hush,” Aramis replied, though Athos could hear the smile in his voice. “But since you seem so dead set on being naked, strip for me. Slowly.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d stripped for Aramis, though they didn’t often take the time to do it. It was strange, though, not being able to see his lover’s reactions as he ran his palms down his chest and over his thighs, cupping his half-hard cock through his soft leather trousers. A soft, appreciative noise from Aramis was enough encouragement to keep going, and he unzipped the fly, easing his trousers down over his thighs to fall on the floor. Stepping out of them, he smirked in what he assumed was Aramis’s direction, cupping his cock through his black boxer briefs and palming his partial erection, hardening more under the stimulation and from anticipation of what was to come. “Better?”

“Naked, Athos,” came the purr, much closer to him than expected, and Athos resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. Instead he eased his boxers down, moaning softly as the elastic rubbed over the shaft of his cock, letting it spring free and letting the undergarments fall.

“Good,” Aramis said softly, voice low and husky. “On the floor, on your back. Now.”

Athos did so, feet encountering what he assumed was a microphone stand and kicking it out of the way to topple and crash into the drum set. “Your wish is my command.”

“Exactly,” Aramis agreed, from above him now, and Athos heard him kneel down behind his head. He lifted one of Athos’s arms, licking the pulse point on his wrist before fastening it securely into one cuff. He repeated the action with his other hand, nibbling briefly on his index finger, then buckled both deftly back to the spreader bar. Athos heard a low, approving hum, and felt Aramis’s hands stroke down his biceps and over his chest, nails just scraping his skin as he drew them back. “This suits you, you know.”

Athos wet his lips, trying not to squirm and wishing he could see Aramis’s expression. “And you’ll be the only one that ever sees me like this.”

“Better be,” Aramis replied, pinching his nipples and twisting just a little before releasing them and standing again. The spark of pain made Athos’s cock jerk against his stomach, and he tried to listen, tried to place Aramis in the room, shivering a little with anticipation and the eroticism of _not knowing_.

His pulse quickened as he felt Aramis’s hand on his ankle, fastening one cuff around it securely, stroking his calf. Despite his talk of love and trust, he couldn’t help but feel just a little anxious. What if he’d read the situation wrong completely? What if....

“Stop thinking,” Aramis said quietly, as if reading his mind. Athos felt him press a kiss to the top of his foot, then fasten the last cuff in place. “I meant it, you know. You can trust me.”

Athos tried to cover up his anxiety the only way he knew how: with sarcasm. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep my thinking to a whisper.”

That got him a sharp smack to one thigh, and the welcome sound of Aramis’s chuckle. “Smart ass. Maybe I should put that mouth of yours to better use.”

He felt Aramis’s weight settle over his chest, knees pressed against his arms, the leather of Aramis’s trousers sliding soft against his own bare skin. Then he heard the sound of the zipper sliding down, and felt Aramis press the head of his cock to his lips, hard and just a little slick with bitter precum. “Open. Suck.”

Athos wrapped his lips around his lover’s cock without further urging, groaning and sucking hungrily at him. He craned his neck up, trying to take as much of Aramis as possible, loving the soft hiss it tore from his lips. What he didn’t expect was the hand that raked through and clenched at his short hair, pulling his head down to the ground. “No. I’m in control here. You do as I say.” Then Aramis rocked forward, pushing his cock into Athos’s mouth and easing back before doing it again. Athos let himself relax and enjoy the slide of Aramis’s cock against his tongue, taking each thrust as he rocked deeper.

“Good,” Aramis crooned, giving a slightly harder thrust. “Take it just like that. God, you look so hot with my cock in your mouth.”

Athos groaned encouragingly, his own cock hard and aching against his abdomen. He swallowed around Aramis as he thrust deep into his throat, the leather of his trousers pressing against his face, and Athos inhaled deeply, smelling sweat and leather and sex and Aramis and feeling almost mindlessly aroused.

All too soon Aramis pulled back, smacking Athos’s lips with the head of his cock as Athos tried to follow him with his mouth. “Eager little tart.”

“I can’t help it if you’re devastatingly sexy,” Athos replied breathlessly, squirming as Aramis slid down to straddle his waist, trying to bring his cock in contact with Aramis’s ass.

Aramis chuckled softly, pausing before moving to deliberately press against his cock and letting Athos thrust up against his leather-clad ass. “So you’re saying that you’re only a slut because of me? That I turn you into a wanton whore?”

“Yes,” Athos moaned, grinding up against him, desperate for more sensation and willing to agree to anything to get it.

“I bet you’d come just like this if I let you, wouldn’t you?” Aramis’s hands rubbed over his stomach and pecks, pinching his nipples again and making Athos hiss and jerk up against him. “Rutting against me like a desperate bitch in heat? Too bad I have other plans for you. I hope you’re still flexible.”

Athos gave a whine that came out far more pathetic sounding than he’d intended as Aramis pulled away, hips arching up and finding no contact. For a moment there was nothing, and he had to fight not to squirm on the floor. “Bloody hell, Aramis....”

“Impatient little cockslut,” Aramis growled, and Athos felt his legs pulled up suddenly by the bar, forcing his knees up against his chest. “Hold still like this.”

“I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?” Athos shot back, straining his arms against the restraints over his head and groaning as Aramis slid a lube slick finger down the crack of his ass.

“I can uncuff you and leave, if you like.”

Athos whimpered and chewed on his lower lip.

“Damn you. No.” He tried to grind against his invisible lover, but his efforts were quite abortive.

“No?” Aramis’s fingertip circled his asshole, teasing without penetrating. “Then what should I do with you?”

Athos gave a slightly frustrated groan, trying to press back against the infuriating digit. “Oh come on....”

“Tell me. Say it.”

Athos squirmed a little more. “You should get the hell on with it and fuck me raw with your huge, hard cock.”

“Mmmm....” Aramis’s moan was undeniably approving, and he pressed one finger inside Athos, fucking him slowly. “Fuck you raw? Fuck this tight little asshole?” He worked another finger inside and Athos felt as if all of his senses suddenly focused on that one outlet, each nerve tingling in anticipation.

“For fuck’s sakes,” he begged. “Don’t be such a wanker. Just give it to me!”

“I love it when you’re so desperate for it,” Aramis gasped, fingers easing away and leaving Athos feeling empty and aching for sensation. He only had to wait for a moment, though, before feeling Aramis grab the bar and pull his legs up higher, keeping them extended and suspended as he did exactly as Athos demanded, the flared head of his cock stretching him open. It was exquisite after the infuriating tease, the spidery discomfort of penetration crawling up his spine and quickly turning to pleasure as Aramis began to move in him, sliding deeper with each thrust until his leather clad hips smacked with a satisfying slap against his bare skin.

“Fuck yes, harder - !” he managed to gasp, trying to arch up into the thrusts but held helpless by the spreader bars. The combination of it all was intoxicating; the helplessness of being restrained, legs spread wide and aching as Aramis plowed into him. Then Aramis forced his legs a little higher, changing the angle of penetration just enough, and suddenly he was hitting up against Athos’s prostate with every thrust, driving overwhelming pleasure hot and bright up his spine like lightning. Each thrust drove a wordless cry from his lips, body shuddering under the onslaught as each buck of Aramis’s hips drove him closer to what promised to be a mind-blowing orgasm. “Aramis - !”

“Come on,” Aramis growled, hips snapping into him. “I wanna watch you come all over yourself like a good little whore.”

“Fuck - !” Even if he hadn’t already been close, Aramis’s words would have still driven him over the edge. Pleasure shuddered through his body as he came, cock unloading in hot spurts on his chest and stomach without even being touched.

Aramis’s yell of pleasure was triumphant, driving into him hard and fast until he found his own release, the heat between them almost unbearable as he unloaded deep inside Athos’s ass.

When Athos could once again function enough to think he realized that his knees had been eased back to his chest and Aramis was undoing the cuffs, yanking impatiently until the buckles came undone. Free of the bars, Athos wrapped his legs loosely around his lover’s waist, practically purring in contentment.

Aramis half collapsed over on top of him, covering Athos’s mouth with his own in a slow, warm kiss. Athos kept his eyes closed behind the blindfold and reveled in the warmth of the moment. Nothing else was important but this culmination of surrender to all the things he’d always fought against but which were really the only things worth having.

It occurred to him suddenly that this wasn’t about him displaying his trust for Aramis anymore, and maybe it never had been. This was about Aramis proving to him, in every way, that his trust was not misplaced. That he could be trusted. But he’d always been able to trust Aramis, he realized, implicitly. For every time love had betrayed him, wounded him, Aramis had been there to silently set things right. To put him back together, just as he unwittingly was now.

“Let me see you,” he murmured, and Aramis gave a hum of agreement against his mouth, reaching back to tug the scarf free.

He pressed a kiss between Athos’s eyes. “Better?”

“Mmm,” Athos replied, feeling almost giddily adoring as his eyes focused and he looked up at the beautiful man over him. “My love...”

Aramis smiled, a contentment in his blue eyes that Athos realized he hadn’t truly seen in a very long time. He nuzzled along Athos’s jaw to place a soft kiss under his ear. His voice was soft and warm when he finally spoke.

“I should tie you up more often."

Athos tried to ignore that his hands were starting to feel numb, enjoying the warmth and closeness. “You’ve already tied me up forever.”

Aramis smiled, pressing closer. “Perhaps then, I should let you write the lyrics to the next song.”

  


**The Real Epilogue**

  


****  


The concert at Buckingham palace proved the catalyst to even more success. Even if certain bitch ex-wives had decided to rear their ugly heads - which they didn’t, as no-one ever heard from Milla again - Common Goals were untouchable. The band played sold out shows between recording sessions, then toured intensely to support their new album for five months. Then they took a well deserved vacation, in which three of the members proceeded to indulge in drunken revelry for six months while our youngest member attended to the needs of his budding family.

Mrs. Connie Goodskies-d’Artagnan, having been finally hired by Treville on a trial basis to run the official Common Goals Fanclub, proceeded to do such a brilliant job of it - even in between bouts of morning sickness, and later, nursing, that Treville decided to keep her. And, happy and engaged in each other, their work, and their family, the d’Artagnans lived out the prime of their lives in wedded bliss.

Occasionally, if one were to drop by their house today, JJ can often be found chasing his son, whom they named Alexander, around the backyard, calling vainly for him to return, “Alex! Alex, dammit, you ruined my life!” One would hardly believe that this man, before them, had at one point been a real rock legend.

Porthos “retired” to Copenhagen, where he became the elected King of the Independent Republic of Christiania. Until we hear differently, that is where you will be able to find him to this day: smoking all the world’s best doob.

Athos and Aramis bought a small island in Greece... in close proximity to Mount Athos. They find much humor in this for many reasons. Their current life goal is to try and bone as much as possible in its shade.

We cannot end our narrative without also letting the readers know a bit of what became of Rochefort, that woe-begone former bandmate of our heros. Interestingly, he published a memoir, entitled _Fall from ATHOS: My Story_ , which turned out to be quite the best-seller, in no small part due to the fact that Rochefort chose that medium to finally set the record straight regarding how he really lost his eye. He is currently independently wealthy thanks to his royalties from the book sales. He lives next door to the d’Artagnans.

  


**THE END**

  


**BONUS MATERIALS**

**Deleted Scenes**

**1\. The one with the phone call**

JJ sidled up to Athos and handed him his fifth beer.

"After we're done here, can we go someplace more quiet, so we can actually talk?"

"Sure," Athos nodded, taking a big gulp, "I just have to call Porthos and check in. He worries like a mother hen."

JJ shuffled his feet. He just knew this was going to be another one of those conversations.

"KEN LEEEEEEE! TULIBU DIBU DOUCHOO!" Athos suddenly bellowed into the phone. Even from the other line, JJ could hear the guffaw of Porthos's reply, followed by something incoherent. "What, asshole? I can't understand a word you're saying. Yeah, I'm fine, it's you I'm worried about, it's like you don't even speak English."

JJ shook his head in resignation.

"ENGLISH, motherfucker! DO YOU SPEAK IT?" An echo sounded on the other line and suddenly Athos's face lit up. "Oh my god, did Aramis and I just both say that at the same time?" he inquired into the phone. JJ heard pot-induced chuckling on the other line. "Well, you should tell him about that," Athos suggested casually.

"Huh huh, I can't," Porthos managed.

"Yes, yes, you can. All you have to do is turn to Aramis and say 'He just said the same thing.'"

"Hahahahah."

"No, you asshole, not laughing. He just said the same thing!"

"Hahahahhaha."

"My god, you're no use to me."

"He says I'm no use to him," Porthos's booming voice shouted into the distance.

"God dammit. Just... please... go write a song. No, you don't write the words. Just... yeah. No. We're leaving." Athos clicked off the phone. "You were saying? You wanna get out of here and go some place where things make more sense?"

"I have abandoned all hope of that ever happening," JJ admitted.

"Chin up, Jimmy Joe!"

"I hate your face."

"No you don't," Athos retorted, turning on his heels and downing the beer. "My face is delightful."

  


**Character Profiles**  


 **James Joseph (JJ) d’Artagnan**  
Heritage: American by birth, Texan by the Grace of God  
 **Affiliation:** Bass player for Common Goals  
 **Claim to fame:** While originally starting off on the wrong foot with his bandmates, JJ quickly endears himself to the rest of the Common Goals with his open-heartedness and bravery and contributes to their Epic Fame.

  


**Adam Athos**  
Heritage: British, although his ethnic origins remain vague. Athos resides in London.  
 **Affiliation:** Formerly leader of ATHOS with his wife, Athos reforms the remaining ATHOS members into Common Goals. He plays lead guitar and composes Common Goals’ music.  
 **Claim to fame:** Athos is broken-hearted, perpetually drunk, and horribly oblivious to his own feelings. Nevertheless, he’s still the golden god he claims to be, both on stage and in the sack.

  


**“Porthos”**  
Heritage: British, likely Scottish  
 **Affiliation:** Drummer, earlier with ATHOS, later with Common Goals  
 **Claim to fame:** Porthos loves sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll. But not as much as he loves his bandmates. At times a surprising voice of reason, but most of the time a loose-cannon, Pothos is always ready to rock the house down.

  


**“Aramis”**  
Heritage: British, and apparently devoutly Catholic  
 **Affiliation:** Frontman for Common Goals, Aramis also wrote lyrics for ATHOS as well as Common Goals  
 **Claim to fame:** This hot piece of ass looks amazing in and out of his leather outfits and has the voice of an angel. No wonder he’s constantly threatening to join the Catholic clergy, thus driving Athos to the brink of jealous insanity.

  


**Milla D**  
Heritage: American, but of mysterious Eastern European origins  
 **Affiliation:** Formerly married to Adam Athos and lead singer of ATHOS; after a messy divorce Milla goes solo.  
 **Claim to fame:** No low is too low for this pop-princess as Milla schemes to destroy the Common Goals.

 **Leslie Ducheez aka Rochefort**  
Heritage: To find out, read his biography: Fall from ATHOS: My Story  
 **Affiliation:** Former member of ATHOS, later playing back-up bass for Milla D  
 **Claim to fame:** Former lover and faithful entourage member of Milla D, he blames Athos for the loss of his eye and plots to bring Common Goals down.

 **Emily Treville**  
Heritage: Unknown  
 **Affiliation:** Common Goals manager and impresario extraordinaire  
 **Claim to fame:** Lets nothing stand in the way of her band’s success, certainly not Milla D or any of her goons. Treville has everyone around her by their nut-sacks, and they love it.

 **Constance (Connie) Goodskies**  
Heritage: British, likely English  
 **Affiliation:** Common Goals groupie, later wife of JJ d’Artagnan and manager of the Official Common Goals Fanclub  
 **Claim to fame:** This gal doesn’t need to always be rescued. She packs a hell of a punch while looking sexy and carrying d’Artagnan’s baby.

 **Grimaud**  
Heritage: French or gay  
 **Affiliation:** Personal assistant to Athos, fashion guru and designer for Common Goals  
 **Claim to fame:** Makes a mean cup of coffee as well as making everyone look fabulous.

 **Bazin**  
Heritage: Unknown  
 **Affiliation:** Roadie for Common Goals  
 **Claim to fame:** Sycophancy

 **Mousqueton**  
Heritage: Unknown  
 **Affiliation:** Procurement for Common Goals  
 **Claim to fame:** Porthos has this entrepreneur on speed-dial for all his pharmaceutical needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike our illustrious predecessors, we do not get paid per word; our only payment is your comments. So, if this made you laugh, cry, cry from laughing, cringe, and/or jizz in your pants - please let us know!


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